


chrysalis

by kayabiter



Category: Cursed (TV 2020)
Genre: AFAB Lancelot, Alcohol, Clothed Sex, Discrimination, Dubious Morality, F/M, First Time, Gender Dysphoria, Implied/Referenced Abuse, Internalized Misogyny, M/M, Misgendering, Non-Binary Lancelot, Other, Poetry, Power Imbalance (Mild), Religious Guilt, Self-Discovery, Self-Harm, Self-Hatred, Swearing, Touch-Starved, Very Mild Mention of Very Mild Drugs, no beta we die like mogwain
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-01-01
Updated: 2021-03-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 23:33:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 12
Words: 89,674
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28485411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kayabiter/pseuds/kayabiter
Summary: This, what others call his core and essence, it is just a fragile shroud. It is a dried cicada’s shell, an old snakeskin, an unraveled chrysalis, that he has tried to crawl out of, yet it somehow stuck, and now he carries it on his back, Gods punishing him for something he has never chosen to be.The bitterness is enough to snap him out of it, make him tear out of the sickly sweet, thickened tar of doubt, feeling as if he is leaving flakes of his own skin in it.“It’s late,” he grits out, voice melted by the seething rage into something sharp, a flick of a whip. “I am training Percival in the morning.”It’s a bit of a dirty trick, to bring up the boy, but it does the job — Gawain nods, turns around, retracting the dark tendrils of his attention. Lancelot can almost see them slither through the air, suffocating smoke clinging to the fire of Gawain’s hair, and his fingers twitch to pick up a charcoal.
Relationships: Gawain | The Green Knight/The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed), Gawain/Priamus/Lancelot (Implied), Kaze/The Weeping Monk | Lancelot (Cursed)
Comments: 76
Kudos: 48





	1. don't trust your gut when you're starved

**Author's Note:**

> Tags & characters to be updated with later chapters.

Frowning, Lancelot inspects his meal. 

He has already done it once, but there is still an inkling of hope in him that something has changed in the few moments he hasn’t been looking. It’s a meagre bowl of stew, too meagre, and he knows he needs more, but the castle cooks don’t have more. At least, not for him. 

Still, he lingers, standing at the kitchen table, even though the cooks have left. It is late, almost everyone has already had their supper, but there are a couple of plates not yet cleared away which he eyes, hoping that maybe there are some scraps left behind. It’s an undignified thing, to dart his eyes around seeking a bone that he can gnaw clean as if he was a hound, but he is always hungry. Winter in a besieged castle where most people would still see him hanged would do that to a man. 

His frown deepens when he sees nothing, and the sucking void in his stomach deepens a bit with it. 

Lancelot is so caught up in his search, that the quiet, measured footsteps behind his back only register when the man—it is a man, the musky scent says as much—is standing right next to him. Then a warm, heavy hand lands on his shoulder, fingers wrapping around the bone, protruding even though the gambeson. They do it as if they have the right.

There is only one person who can do it, and Lancelot sets his jaw, refusing to turn around and meet the calm— _lying_ —green eyes. Instead, he continues to glare at the empty dining tables, as if it would magically summon a steaming plate just for him. 

“Is that all they gave you?” Gawain asks, nodding at the bowl in his hands.

“Yes,” he bites out, and picks up a spoon, at last, giving up on his hunt. When he brings it up to his lips, he can’t help a wince: the stew is half water, and lukewarm at that. His fault, though, should not have gotten so lost in his head. 

“You must be hungry,” the knight notes, a useless empty phrase, a bait to get Lancelot to beg, but he says it with the unchallenged confidence. He always utters every statement as if it is an order. As even if Lancelot wasn’t, in fact, hungry, he would be now, because Gawain said so.

It makes him want to bark that he is not a charity case. He doesn’t, because doing so would be akin to a chained and caged beast lashing out. Entertaining for the crowd and draining and useless for the animal itself. 

“Come,” Gawain says, another order paraded like a heartfelt invitation.

“What for?” Lancelot wonders bitterly, as he catches a faint scent of a rat in his stew and tries not to gag.

“Have dinner with me,” the knight replies, easy as that, and the nonchalant nerve of it drives Lancelot up the wall. He is half of a mind to refuse, already opens his mouth, when Gawain’s fingers tighten a bit more, but it’s not that, it’s the painful clench of his stomach around nothing that makes him pause. It is the way he is already tired of standing as they do because the knight’s hand is a noticeable weight, even though he would never admit that. 

Closing his mouth, Lancelot gives a stiff nod, helpless hatred sweeping him under and coiling his muscles tight. Gawain’s eyes linger on his meal. 

“Leave that,” he utters, and Lancelot wants to throw it in his face, but instead he puts it down on the stained table and goes to follow the knight out of the dining hall. As they walk, he hears the quick soft footsteps behind, and when he turns around, it is to catch a glimpse of a child dash outside—the bowl no longer on the table. 

Lancelot knows Gawain already gave most of the food to others. He knows he only keeps to himself and other warriors what is needed to ensure they can fight. He knows all that, has seen Gawain nearly die on the raids to scavenge at least some grain. This is all still horribly wrong.

The winding halls of the castle are cold and empty as they go to the northern tower. Only the patrolling guards and a few servants nod at them. Gathering his frantic thoughts, Lancelot comes up with a perfectly reasonable explanation of why they are going somewhere together at this hour. It involves a very real threat of a flood in the dungeons that he has already investigated without telling anyone. No one would be able to catch him on a lie.

No one asks.

When they enter the knight’s chamber, Lancelot is all but vibrating with anxiousness. From what he has heard around the castle, people rarely leave it without getting a taste of far more than some bread and wine. Mostly, it’s women, who come willingly — or as willingly as one can when offering themselves is the way to increase their chances of survival.

Though maybe they don’t mind much, Lancelot thinks. With his auburn hair and strong features, he is handsome; still broad-shouldered and light on his feet, even though his cheeks are sunken and he’s had to pierce new holes in his belt. Lancelot saw him do it in the armoury when he got fed up with ill-fitted garment, yanking it roughly off in a way that made him a bit light-headed and very, very wary.

But Gawain takes care of his things, everyone knows that. He wines and dines them before taking them to bed. He asks them for a dance, and they always look proud and flustered to grant it, always exchange hushed whispers in the common room of the ladies’ wing afterwards. Lancelot only passes it on his way to the training yard in the morning, but he has heard more about the knight’s prowess than he is ready to think about now if he wants to eat.

“Sit,” Gawain says, drawing up the upholstered chair, and Lancelot sits, spine stiff and chin up, not that it fools either of them. Then he waits, watching the man light the candles, three of them standing in a row on a desk, flames spring to life one by one under his fingers. 

It is quiet in the room, only the faint crackle of fire in the hearth, Gawain’s soft steps and Lancelot’s own strained breathing. In an attempt to distract himself, he falls back on the habits and studies the surroundings. 

There is a four-poster bed in the corner, covered with thick grey furs, another pelt strewn next to it, the carved wood cabinet from which Gawain is taking the cutlery right now, and a desk littered with parchments, maps, organised chaos. 

There is also an iron chest at the feet of the bed, but it’s closed. There is probably nothing malicious in it. Just clothes, or something. Nothing to make him itch to break it open to see for himself as he does. 

Tearing his eyes away, Lancelot takes a deep breath in. The room smells like smoke and sweat, mostly, the usual smell of an occupied dwelling. It is nothing like the beast’s lair he’s imagined it would be, but Lancelot is still on the very edge of the chair. 

He tenses when Gawain brushes against him, but it is just to set the plate on the table. They still don’t say a word, either of them. 

Then someone calls out from the door, and Lancelot jumps, before recognising Arthur’s voice. When he glances over there, the man looks ruffled, but he is not covered in blood, so it’s probably not an emergency. 

“Night, Gawain — Lancelot. Sorry for interrupting, it would just take a minute.” 

When Gawain glances at him, arching one brow, as if asking for permission, which is ridiculous, Lancelot finds himself nodding. 

While the men talk, he throws surreptitious glances their way, all while wearing a hole in his sleeve with all the tugging and twisting. There is nothing in Arthur’s face to indicate he disapproves of what is going on, but the mere fact that he has been caught dining with the knight in his chamber makes Lancelot want to bolt for the exit. 

However, Arthur is not the judgemental sort, and neither is he the one to go around blabbing about someone’s private affairs. He would, however, pry, if he sees Lancelot acting strange—and rushing out would only make for more gossip fuel. As it is, he can always say they just shared a meal. People do that. Not with him, but it would probably not alert anyone enough to drag his name through the mud more than it already is. 

It is more than a minute, Lancelot notes, watching the dusk deepen outside the tower’s window. More like a dozen minutes. 

It doesn’t sound like a serious enough issue for Gawain to leave, though. Lancelot is not sure whether he would be relieved or disappointed. All while they talk, he just sits there, wondering if he is making a mistake, eyes darting towards the entrance as he wrings his thin, sinewy hands on his lap. 

Worry spikes even more, which he has not thought was possible outside battle when Arthur bids them goodbye and the door shuts close with a dull thud, leaving him with Gawain, who turns around with a frown. 

“Sorry to keep you waiting,” he says, and Lancelot barely finds the voice to croak out a hoarse, “’s alright.” 

He manages to worry himself into being nearly sick, which would probably be a spectacular way to dissuade Gawain’s attention, but then the knight unwraps a bundle of food, and the smell of food reaches his nose. 

It’s butter. And meat. He hasn’t had either in days. 

And bread. Rye one. 

Belatedly, Lancelot realises a soft, strained whimper comes out of his throat and stops it abruptly, but the damage is done. The defeat is announced by the barely noticeable uptick of Gawain’s lips. 

When he comes closer, carrying the plate, Lancelot has recovered enough control to stay quiet, but not enough to avoid eyeing him anxiously. His body is in a riot. It would tear Gawain apart for this food. It would eat out of his hands, large, rough from cold weather, would lick his calloused fingers clean and kiss his palms.

Lancelot does not want to think why he’s thought that. It’s a strain on his willpower that makes him arch a bit when the knight brushes against him again as he sets the plate. 

“Here. Enjoy,” Gawain says, quiet and calm, and Lancelot doesn’t want to obey, but he can’t help it. He is already finding more pleasure in the situation than he should, the warmth of the hearth mellowing him out, the pleasant scent of food making his mouth water.

He licks his lips without a thought, sees Gawain’s eyes linger, but before the jolt of fear can move him into action, the knight draws back and goes to take a seat. He is utterly unfazed where Lancelot is a trembling mess, even though all of that trembling is happening on the inside only for now.

But Gawain just raises an eyebrow and nods at the plate, picking up a morsel himself. He clutches it delicately enough to soothe some of Lancelot’s fear that has by now been betrayed by his hands.

He must have scared himself so much with the stories that he sees shadows where there are none, Lancelot tries to reason, and something inside him knows it’s a lie, but he hushes the quiet nagging voice and reaches for the food. He bites into dark bread with the reverie he should have felt for the communion one but never have. 

For a bite or two, it is pure bliss, saliva pooling in his mouth, and he doesn’t remember to breathe until his throat seizes around another mouthful. 

“Slow down,” Gawain mutters, laying a hand on his wrist. “Or you will choke.”

_You’d like that, wouldn’t you_ , Lancelot thinks, as he sets his jaw angrily and chews slower, more thorough. This time the taste actually registers, and he nearly moans again, but stops himself, realising that the hand on his wrist has still not drawn away. It rests there like a warm, soft shackle, pinning him to the table. 

Having regained relative control of his manners, Lancelot is still all quick bites and frantic chewing as he polishes off smoked, salted meat, stomach tightening with how heavy and rich the flavour is, compared to the bland stews of the common kitchens. 

“I would have asked about the day,” Gawain says suddenly, “but I was there for the most of it.”

Licking the last traces off his fingers, Lancelot shrugs. “Then don’t.”

This is decidedly not what women he is quartered with have implied one is supposed to say in such situations, but the knight just gives him a thin smile. It looks as if he considers asking something again, but decides against it, letting him eat in peace.

The fire crackles, and the wind howls outside as Lancelot feeds the void in his stomach, feels it close like a wound. All the while, Gawain watches him, his expression unreadable. The red gleams of flames in the hearth flicker over his face, setting his eyes ablaze. He has barely touched his own food. 

Swallowing, Lancelot hastens to finish the meal. He pushes the last pieces of bread in his mouth with one hand and tries to ignore the way Gawain rubs circles with his thumb into another.

Finally, the last crumbs are devoured. The plate is empty. The hand withdraws. It is a dance that is more of a fight, and Lancelot has a feeling he is losing. 

“Want more?”

He does. He shakes his head, and then, for emphasis, pushes the plate slightly away with his fingertips.

Gawain takes it, gets up, and in a moment he returns with more. 

There is no one here to see them, but, staring at the cold meat and a slice of goat cheese, Lancelot feels as if he was stripped naked and bound to the pole in front of a leering crowd, as he has seen his father do with whores. 

His father was wrong about many things, though, and even if he wasn’t about this one, he is too dead to argue, so Lancelot forces the tears back and picks up the cheese. He has always liked the taste, even though it is so much better in Francia than in this frozen hellhole. 

As he eats, numb and mute, Gawain’s hand grows bolder. It is still gentle, just a soft glide of fingers up and down his wrist, but it ties Lancelot’s stomach in knots until he barely manages to finish the portion.

There is a beat of silence after he does, and then Gawain slowly takes his hand away. Staring at the polished wood of the table with unseeing eyes, Lancelot shivers when the cold air touches his skin, stealing the warmth left in the wake of the caress. 

“Did you like it?”

What kind of question is that? He is starving. There is no such thing as liking when you haven’t had enough of something you need to survive in months. Liking something is a luxury he cannot afford. 

“Better than rats,” he mutters under his breath, eyes fixed on the empty plate for a moment longer, the scratched dim silver reflecting his shame. 

Gawain chuckles, but his eyes are mirthless and frustrated when Lancelot looks up. “I wasn’t talking about food.” 

As if to clarify, he brings his hand back, and it starts with a feather light touch to his bruised knuckles, but then the fingers dig deeper as they slide under, stroking along the angry blue of the veins on the thin wrist. 

It doesn’t go further than that. It’s just a caress. So why is Lancelot flushed, as if it is something obscene, the way Gawain’s fingers dip just under the hem of his sleeve and then slip out. When they do it again, the tingling feeling spreads; echoed by a flutter in his stomach, it draws a gasp out of Lancelot, makes him clench his fingers in a fist, accidentally brushing them against Gawain’s.

Swallowing, he lowers his gaze and waits as the knight’s hand moves slowly up, sliding over the dark linen, over the uneven stitches, the warmth seeping through the tattered fabric. 

His body is rioting again. It wants to lean into the touch, gorge itself on it, wants to let itself be defiled and pried open by these fingers if it means he gets them to bring him what he craves. It wants to fight back, bite that hand, the one that feeds. 

That would be uncourteous. Rude. Mean. Would not be the first time — Lancelot has been reliably informed he is a mean person; but he is also a desperate one. 

He has been trying his hardest to be an honest one, at least. But honesty doesn’t play well with hunger. 

“No,” he says, at last, not drawing back. “Maybe. I don’t know.” 

The hand slows down and then withdraws. Lancelot’s breath is caught in his throat as he waits for the backlash, for the sting of a slap, but it doesn’t come. Instead, the leather creaks and the chair scrapes against the floor as Gawain gets up to clear away the plates. 

Letting out a breath, Lancelot shifts, and, suddenly embarrassed for his manners, snatches his own plate before the knight can take it, pushes off the chair and looks around. In the corner of his eye, he sees a smile curl the knight’s chapped lips, slow and settled like a snake that has just caught a rabbit, and his stomach lurches. 

“There,” Gawain nods, a light touch to his elbow as he urges him to turn around, “just put it with the rest.” 

He pours himself a goblet of wine, and offers one to Lancelot — he almost refuses, before seeing that it is not watered down for him as it usually is. It gives him pause, stirs the familiar stubbornness when faced with a challenge. And it is one, he sees it in the way Gawain tilts his head and sets the jug of water on the table.

Frowning, Lancelot shakes his head and picks the goblet up with both hands. It’s not wise, given how drowsy he already feels from eating too much after not eating enough for so long. But he is not wise, he is spiteful and tired, and he wants to regain some ground because he can take it, just as he can take their fighting. 

The taste is so strong, he draws back in surprise after the first sip. It is not unpleasant, though, not really — not with the way it warms him from inside out even more than he already is, coats his tongue with something forbidden, goes straight to his head.

“Water?” Gawain asks, and his eyes are the same, cool green, while Lancelot is burning up.

“No,” he replies and brings the goblet up to his mouth again.

The silence stretches, taut and uneasy, as he gulps greedily, while Gawain takes measured sips, crimson staining his lips before he pulls the tankard away. 

“You are probably tired now,” he says, not looking at Lancelot. “You can stay if you want.”

His heart skips a beat—and his eyes dart to the bed before he can stop himself. It’s slightly intimidating in its decadent, oppressive luxury, but his head swims at the idea of sleeping under the furs, enveloped in their warmth. 

Of sleeping with someone pressed against him, his hazy mind supplies, of someone who will warm him until he suffocates with heat, who will be—more dangerous than he is, could hold him down, and... 

“I am not tired,” he forces out, choking on the words as he tries to smother the thoughts, feeling as if he splashed water to put out a fire only to find it was oil. He is drunk and lonely, horribly lonely, the cold draft of his own small room, barely more than a cell, howling in his mind as he shivers and finishes the wine in one gulp. 

Gawain shrugs and doesn’t say a word, but something shifts in his face, clouds it — he looks disappointed. Frustrated. But he still has not moved to touch, not more than that caress, and it was — it was quite innocent, not really something to get so worked up about, Lancelot thinks, hiding his face into the goblet and squeezing his eyes shut for a moment.

“Thank you,” he tries, and though the words sit sour and heavy in his stomach, they seem to soothe some of the dismay, brighten the green until it no longer makes his throat close with fear.

“It was my pleasure,” the knight replies. The way his lips move to shape the word is far from innocent.

He allows the silence to stretch, growing heavier, as he slowly finishes his own goblet with the same measured sips, obviously savouring the flavour while Lancelot fidgets with his own empty one. He can’t quite untangle the taste, and even if he could, the only word he would probably use to describe is just that — sour. Or red. Does red have a taste? 

He should probably stop drinking if he starts asking such things.

“I’ll go, then,” Lancelot announces, his voice all tense and wrong from the restlessness stirring inside the longer he is alone with the knight, far from the eyes of the others. 

Gawain just nods, not looking at him. Glancing in the same direction, Lancelot doesn’t see anything, just the desk and the slowly melting candles. Putting the goblet down with a thud, he swallows, frowns, worries at his lip, realises he must be as transparent as lake water, flushes, and finally turns on his heel, heading for the door. 

When his hand lifts to push it open, Gawain speaks again. 

“You should come tomorrow.”

He freezes at once. It sounds like a threat, and he wonders, once again, if he is seeing things.

“I will make something for you. We can talk.” 

With his fingertips still pressed against the wood, Lancelot stares at the narrow beam of light falling on the ground from under the door. It is a beckoning call, but something pulls him back from it, traps him on the threshold as an insect in a slowly thickening tree sap.

“I wouldn’t want to be a burden,” he says, finally.

“You won’t be,” Gawain counters calmly, and the desk creaks as he leans against it. When Lancelot throws a glance over his shoulder, he recognises the thoughtful expression on the knight’s face from their sparring, from when Gawain is gauging the opponent. “You’re… not like the others. I would like to get to know you better.” 

Uneasy feelings growing heavier in his gut, Lancelot frowns, still half-turned towards the door. “You know me well enough.”

When Gawain shakes his head, he can almost hear the fanfare announcing the end of another fighting round. “As a warrior. I haven’t had the chance to see your other sides.”

Lancelot is fairly sure they are not talking about his artistic inclinations at the moment. Apart from that, there are no other sides, he wants to point out, but he knows damn well no one ever listens. No one ever believes that this is who he is, his whole being, and the other things, the curves and dips of his body that do not align with what the others expect to see when he takes the armour off to scrub himself clean after the fight—well, he hasn’t had a say in that, has he?

This, what others call his core and essence, it is just a fragile shroud. It is a dried cicada’s shell, an old snakeskin, an unravelled chrysalis, that he has tried to crawl out of, yet it somehow stuck, and now he carries it on his back, Gods punishing him for something he has never chosen to be.

The bitterness is enough to snap him out of it, make him tear out of the sickly sweet, thickened tar of doubt, feeling as if he is leaving flakes of his own skin in it.

“It’s late,” he grits out, voice melted by the seething rage into something sharp, a flick of a whip. “I am training Percival in the morning.”

It’s a bit of a dirty trick, to bring up the boy, but it does the job — Gawain nods, turns around, retracting the dark tendrils of his attention. Lancelot can almost see them slither through the air, suffocating smoke clinging to the fire of Gawain’s hair, and his fingers twitch to pick up charcoal.

Already knowing he will not get much sleep tonight, Lancelot turns around and goes to leave. If he is lucky, he will only end up with his arms stained grey to the elbow from trying to rein in the racing thoughts with the lines on the parchment. If he is not, they will break free and spill from his lips and over his fingers, sucking the black from them and smearing it down his cheeks as he weeps afterwards, angry and broken in the same sore place once again.

“Lancelot?”

He pauses, balancing precariously half-movement, only the toes still in the room.

“Sleep well.”


	2. i made a fist and not a plan

“Move along, will you?”

Not lifting his eyes from the plate, Lancelot moves, neatly sidestepping the elbow that was aimed at his ribs. The man fumbles a bit, and huffs, but does not try to touch him again. They only ever try when they think he is lost in his head, all too aware that otherwise he might bite. He has, multiple times, going as far as leaving with a piece of skin clutched in his teeth like a victorious stray cat.

People move around him as if he takes up less space than he actually does, but Lancelot dodges without giving it a thought — all of his focus is on the new information, details that were not here yesterday. There is more food on his plate than he has seen in months — maybe ever, last night notwithstanding. The cook has a dark eye, pretty purple ripening like a plum, and he glowers at him but does not say a word. 

The conclusion is simple — Gawain.

For a brief moment, Lancelot entertains the idea of dumping the food on the floor. He could also feed it to some stray animal — a real stray animal. He could do many things to make a statement that roughly translates to the same old, worn-out cliche of “I am not your charity case”.

What Lancelot does instead is he sits down on a bench and breaks the hunk of bread in half, shoving one in his mouth.

Gawain might soon get bored and give up on him if he continues being silent and doesn’t give him a glimpse inside his head, Lancelot thinks, chewing around a mouthful with some effort. The next morsel he tears off is much smaller; as he continues steadily devouring the meal, his eyes rove around the dining hall. 

It is just the usual bustle of breakfast time, Fey darting back and forth with plates and tankards, some still coming in, yawning and rubbing their eyes, some already rushing out to carry out their chores. Scales and horns, Lancelot has found, are far less intimidating, when they are attached to a blearily blinking baker wearing an apron with sunflowers.

There are other fighters, too, though. He perks up his ears when the voices of the Tusks in the corner start to rise, but after some grumbling and a few half-hearted swings, the men calm down. They are a rowdy crowd, but not a bloodthirsty one, just obsessed with their complicated code of honour. 

Glancing down at the hearty, hot porridge, which is halfway gone by now, Lancelot briefly remembers the tantalising brush of Gawain’s fingers up his wrist. With a spoon still clutched tight in his hand, he clenches his jaw and pauses for a moment, allowing his stomach to settle.

He is brought out of his contemplation by the quiet light footsteps behind his back. Going stiff out of habit, he twists to turn around before recognising the person and letting his shoulders sag a bit.

“What has the porridge done to you?” Kaze wonders, coming closer. Despite an early hour, she is as collected and alert as ever. The bright, bold purple is swishing around her thighs, the curve of her scimitar resting perfectly on the curve of her hip, as if it truly belongs there, as if she was born with it, the claim undisputable.

“Nothing,” he replies curtly, setting the spoon down.

Why can’t it be her, Lancelot thinks forlornly, as he sinks his teeth into a tiny shrivelled apple. Despite its unappealing appearance, it is still fragrant and sweet and takes him out like a punch to the gut — like Kaze does sometimes when they go hand to hand. Why can’t _he_ be her, while they are at it? He is always dying to ask the fierce woman how she spins her alleged flaws into something that only makes her stronger, but every time his throat closes with shame at not being able to figure it out on his own.

She stops next to him, stretches her neck to glance at the porridge over his shoulder, looks at him, then back at the bowl and finally fixes Lancelot with a pointed stare. An agonisingly long minute stretches in silence, as he scarfs down the rest of the food, refusing to look up at her.

“He didn’t mean it as an insult,” she notes.

“I don’t care,” Lancelot replies out of habit, before realising he has just confirmed her guess—well, has not contradicted, which is just as bad. Then he closes his eyes for a second, letting the mortification rampage through his body, almost savouring it because that’s what he deserves for being careless.

Tilting her head, Kaze studies him for a moment, and he does not need a mirror to know a flush spreads over his face—he feels it like a nettle burn on his cheeks.

“Do I need to talk to him?” she wonders in a low voice, and Lancelot shakes his head before he realises it might have indeed been reasonable to have her as a mediator. However, now he has already said no, so, no it is.

“It’s just food,” he says, bending and twisting the apple stem in his fingers — all that is left now.

She looks at the empty bowl again, then back at him, and finally nods, getting up. Picking his sword up from where it leans against the table, Lancelot hurries to follow her out of the hall. 

At the entrance, he pauses, shoving the bowl on the stack of dirty cutlery in such a haste, that it nearly topples over—which earns him a death glare from one of the cleaning maids, but he barely notices it, already striding away to join Kaze.

“One more thing,” she says, clasping his forearm, “if he oversteps, go for the balls. You know how, right?”

The remark does nothing for his composure, and, flustered but silent, Lancelot gives a stiff nod and follows the woman to the training yard.

~

The sword meets the helm with a deafening ring, and the Fey hoot and hiss in sympathy, watching the man go down like a stone. The snow rises, glittering, in the air, and then slowly settles back.

The Fey exchange agitated remarks, arguing about whether the outcome was decided on the very first counterattack or, after all, the man could have still recovered. For a minute or two, the debate continues, until they settle on the former. 

Then Arthur leans back, stretches his legs and throws his head back for a moment, enjoying the faint warmth of the sun that has finally peeked through the clouds this noon.

“So, what are you all going to do after the war?” he asks, and the Fey, who have just quietened, engrossed in their light lunch, perk up again, clamouring, tentative hope written over their faces. They try to hide it, sure, but it still shines through, what’s with the break in the weather — and the rumours of a peace treaty circulating the castle this morning. 

In the dining hall, Lancelot, on account of not understanding their native languages, has missed it entirely, but he caught a word or two in Englisc while walking down the hallways. The Fey don’t bring it up now, only glance at Gawain once or twice, pausing meaningfully, but the man is silent, and his face does not betray a thing. 

There are deeper shadows under his eyes than usual, as if he got as little sleep last night as Lancelot had. He does not stop them, however.

One by one, they share their plans while Lancelot listens in silence, studying the edge of his blade. It is perfectly sharp, unfortunately, so he doesn’t have an excuse of being engrossed in whetting it as he usually does. 

He can feel his turn coming as if it was a wave rolling over the group, cold water creeping closer until Arthur turns to him, followed by the others, and the noose of their attention strangles his throat.

A moment passes in silence, and then Arthur clears his throat. Lancelot wishes he could say he is doing it with malice, but even he cannot see any of it behind the young man’s open face. Arthur is just — despite everything, he is still an outsider, and seems to see it as a reason to bond with the estranged resident renegade.

“Lance? What about you?” he calls out, an encouraging note in his voice.

“Not going to live long enough,” Lancelot replies curtly.

There is a silence for a moment, and then someone drawls: “Well, that’s morbid.”

Arthur shushes them with an impatient gesture and then waves his hand at Lancelot, urging him to continue: “Well, assuming you don’t.” 

Lancelot pauses, frowning. He can feel their curious stares, heavy and restricting. If Fey somehow do win and he somehow doesn’t die, the chances of each event so slim that a joint one is nearly improbable, he is obliged to help them rebuild — it’s his sentence. But after… He had these foolish dreams of travelling to some court in Italy and asking for an artist apprenticeship there. But while Gawain might be able to get them their peace in Britain, no Fey would be welcome anywhere near Rome for years to come.

Besides, mentioning art in front of his brothers in arms is just asking for trouble. He is not going to surrender his most vulnerable part to their mocking. 

“Become a sellsword, I guess,” he shrugs. 

“And then?..” someone asks.

Right. Usually, people only do that long enough to save coin to settle somewhere, in a picturesque village where they can forget the world is bright and violent, and ever-changing. They can surround themselves with drowsy content. With sheep. And children. Lancelot is going to be sick.

“Then I’ll die,” he snaps. “What’s not clear?”

In the corner of his eye, he sees Fey exchange confused glances, shaking their heads, and clenches his jaw so tight, his teeth hurt. Good, he thinks. 

“Nothing,” Arthur says after a pause, sounding as if he has just had an epiphany. “Everything is perfectly clear.”

Nodding abruptly, Lancelot stands up and turns around — they are all watching him, but his gaze falls on Gawain, who is watching him with narrowed eyes, the same thoughtful look on his face he has when there is an attack to plan. Belatedly, he realises the knight himself has not said a word, yet for some reason, no one is hounding him.

“Who is next?” he bites out, twirling the blade in an absolutely unnecessary, but vaguely threatening gesture that does wonders to help him feel a bit more grounded.

“I am,” Gawain replies before anyone can put in a word, and then he is pushing off the wall he’s been leaning against and is coming closer. The hushed whispers and chuckles follow him, as the Fey get ready to enjoy the spectacle — it is always one when they fight, and Lancelot’s fingers tighten on the pommel, the hairs on the back of his neck rising in anticipation.

Overlaid by wind-tousled red strands of hair, Gawain’s face is a calm, stone mask, as he stops next to him. His irises are contrasting with the faint lilac shade of the eyelids in a strangely appealing way, Lancelot notices, and then thinks, _what on earth_ , and adjusts the grip on the sword into something more reasonable.

Gawain studies him back for just a beat longer, but the cold air between them thickens with tension, hums with some distant noise, like thunder approaching from a distance.

“Shall we?” he asks, and Lancelot takes two quick, light steps back, and falls into the ox guard.

~

“Well,” Arthur mutters, sounding genuinely uneasy. “That was brutal.”

The other Fey are too stunned to even nod, just mutely watching how two of their best fighters try to get up from the ground but fail. Every time Gawain manages to push himself up, Lancelot gathers the last of his strength — at least every time it feels like the last — and sweeps his legs from under him, bringing them back to square one.

It happens three times before the knight finally dodges his kick and then twists, pinning him to the ground.

“Yield,” he breathes out, heavy and strained, and Lancelot suspects at least some of the weight holding him down is mostly because Gawain can’t keep himself upright anymore, not because he is actually putting force behind it.

“Bugger off,” he wheezes out and then bursts into a coughing fit, droplets of blood from his split lip landing on the knight’s face.

They are caught in some weird lock that consists of Lancelot trying to flip them around while Gawain resists, both of them heaving for air with rattled, shaky breaths. It lasts for a moment or two, and then there is a shuffle as someone walks closer, and Lancelot squints when they block the sun. He is still a bit dazed from the last blow; in between that and sweat pouring into his eyes, it takes him a moment to focus.

“You might want to take it somewhere more private,” the man — Arthur — murmurs under his breath, and then, when they both glare at him, clears his throat. “I think it’s a draw.”

Gawain glances down at him then, and Lancelot lifts his chin with a defiant air, but in a moment, deflates with a heavy sigh and nods.

“A draw,” he murmurs and then lets his head fall back to the ground as Arthur helps the knight to stand. With the weight finally off his chest, Lancelot takes a greedy gulp of chill air and lingers on the ground, waiting for the strength to return enough to get up as well.

The sky is a brilliant blue, and despite being bruised and bloodied, he is filled with a low, pleasant buzz that means the ever-present crave for violence has been sated. A smile stretches his lips, stinging at the cut, at the memory of Gawain’s face when he did a double feint and nicked him on a face; a taunt that made the knight stop for a moment, touch his cheek and then glance disbelievingly at the blood coating his fingers. 

That was probably when he stopped holding back and started fighting in earnest, Lancelot thinks in a sated daze, and then forces himself to raise his head and look over at the other Fey.

There, under the tree, pouches are exchanged with dejected murmurs, and Lancelot squints, trying to figure out who bet on him, but his spying is interrupted by Gawain blocking the view. Looking up, he sees an extended hand; usually, he would have accepted, but now... The knight’s eyebrow is cocked in the most arrogant way, which is unfair because Lancelot has just given him enough bruises to be felt for days.

Ignoring the offer, Lancelot plants a hand on the ground and pushes up. It is less than graceful, and he sways a bit, but ultimately, he is standing. He is upright, and he doesn’t even make any pitiful sounds in the process, just hunches on himself a bit and takes a deep, ragged breath in.

“I should train more,” he determines, eyes already following Kaze, who has taken their place on the yard, sparring with one of the Fey. The fellow is decent, but no match to her. Lancelot gives him a minute, two at most.

Gawain just sighs.

“You should get that bandaged,” he remarks, eyes flitting to the sluggishly bleeding, nasty cut on Lancelot’s forearm. “I’ll walk you to the healers.”

Following his eyes, Lancelot winces and then nods with a quiet, deep sigh.“I know where they are.” He pauses, narrowing his eyes. “And I can get there myself.”

“It pains me to admit it, but it would pain me even more tomorrow if I don’t get something for my ribs — did you really have to kick like this?” the knight asks, already moving to where his sword lays on the ground, thrown aside when Lancelot knocked it out of his hands. He does move with more care than usual when he bends over to pick it up. 

It does make him a bit itchy on the inside to see Gawain wince in pain now that they are no longer caught up in a struggle, but it is not enough to overshadow how proud Lancelot is of that kick.

“It was a good one,” he notes absently as he straightens after retrieving his own sword, a slight frown pulling his eyebrows together. Glancing around to check that others are distracted by Kaze steadily making her way through the rest of the fighters, he lowers his voice a bit, before continuing. “Don’t you have remedies at your quarters?”

“Want me to come up with another excuse? Alright,” Gawain shrugs, then pretends to think, adopting a pensive look that is too exaggerated compared to his usual ones, the flickers of fire on the stone. “Let’s see… I need a refill of my sleeping draught.”

“A refill?” Lancelot arches an eyebrow, snatching his cloak from the bench but not bothering to put it on — it’s a short walk here.

“You gave me nightmare fuel for years,” the knight gives him a faint, wry smile—and then he raises his hand, and, before Lancelot can draw back, he taps him on the nose.

With a short hiss of surprise, Lancelot stumbles back, swatting his hand away, and immediately scrunches his nose, trying to get rid of a funny feeling spreading from its tip. It almost feels like he is going to sneeze, and he barely stops himself from clawing at the skin—the tingling is all on the inside, anyway, it won’t help.

“No wonder you like to bite so much,” Gawain observes in a low voice, and he sounds strangely smug and amused about it. “Like a cat.”

Shooting him a dark glance, Lancelot does not answer, choosing instead to inspect the domed ceiling of the gallery they are walking through. There is a thin layer of snow on the stone ledges, and some of it is scattered under their feet, as well. It is quiet and delicate here; the dim of the training yard is fading, though he can still hear the clinging of steel and excited cheers.

Frankly, out of the entire castle, Lancelot probably likes it the most here, on the outside galleries and near the windows, where it is too cold for most people to linger and he can find some peace; but then they turn the corner and dive into one of the doors, entering the warmer, darker belly of the castle.

Once they reach the healers, a small scene ensues where three women at once demand to know what they were thinking. Unsure of whether they would be able to understand, Lancelot keeps silent and allows Gawain to deal with them. The knight carries out the task with his usual suave grace: he reassures them they were simply a bit too excited, nothing to worry about, things like that happen all the time, and surely with their expert help it will only take them a day to fully recover and be fit to protect them.

Picking at the edge of his cloak, Lancelot listens, until Pym returns with a bowl full of another smelly green poultice that Fey seem to craft out of thin air, at times. Or so he has thought before noticing a small garden they have set up in one of the inner yards. It’s kept alive mostly by magic, a dull but necessary duty of a couple of druid apprentices who have to spend their entire day sitting there on the ground, emanating some strange humming energy that keeps the plants alive.

With Pym’s nimble fingers, the cut on his arm is bandaged in no time; she has improved in leaps and bounds under the older healer’s strict guidance. While she works, Lancelot keeps his gaze trained on the ground, but still, in the corner of his eye, he sees the angry red imprints on Gawain’s side as one of the healers slathers the ointment over it.

It is nothing he has not seen before, but somehow now Lancelot feels the urge to avert his eyes before he is caught looking. Seeing others half-naked at least is unavoidable when fighting and living together, but he carves a moment of peace for himself, a moment to not think about what the others can read on his face.

Once they are sufficiently reprimanded and patched up, with more of the former than Lancelot thinks is necessary, and go to leave, Polly stops him in the doors, pressing another vial into his palm.

“You know what for,” she says meaningfully, patting him on the forearm, and, uncorking the vial to take a sniff, Lancelot flushes, swears under his breath, and hurries to put it onto his belt and under the cloak, far from the prying eyes. Usually, those vials were for the — not ailment, exactly, just one more thing wrong with him — but this time, judging from the ingredients, it seems to be the opposite.

He only recognises them because he has once found a vial on Pym’s bed and she’s caught him red-handed. It is not a memory Lancelot likes to revisit, so he 

“Wait,” Gawain says, once the door shuts behind them, cutting off the low murmurs of the healers’ shop. “Is there… something wrong? With your,”—he coughs—“your womanhood?”

“Yes,” he grits out.

“What?” 

“It exists,” Lancelot says, and tries to leave—tries, because Gawain catches him by the elbow, tugging him back.

“I am sorry,” he breathes out, too close, too damn close, he is somehow taking all the space, towering above him, warm and stormy with his hair still in disarray from their fight, red strands fluttering in the cold wind— he lifts a hand to brush them out of his eyes. “Won’t pry if it bothers you.”

Swallowing thickly, Lancelot gives him a little nod, before tugging his elbow away; Gawain lets him go, even though his fingers linger, and their reluctance to part with him sends a shiver down Lancelot’s spine.

He is not quite sure what to say, even though it feels as he is supposed to know. As if sensing it, Gawain tilts his head and clears his throat.

“Will you come tonight?” he asks, and there is no one in that hallway, but Lancelot’s heart still stirs like an anxious beast awoken from its slumber, the thin fingers of worry reaching down to his stomach. 

“What is it you’re so afraid of?” Gawain wonders, raising a hand to brush over the fresh bruise blooming over his. “You already know the violence I can inflict. It’s not that, is it?”

Baring his teeth, Lancelot glares back and does not reply, but neither does he try to shield himself. He has just taken Gawain down in a fight — would have, if they were fighting in earnest. He is quite sure he can still do it tonight if the need arises. 

Slowly, he nods, and then takes a step back, not taking his eyes off the knight, who is watching him with an odd, wistful look on his face.

“You don’t need to be afraid of me,” he says, low and grave, and Lancelot takes another step back. Pausing, he draws in a breath, ready to argue that he isn’t, then turns around without saying a word and leaves.

He can feel the weight of Gawain’s stare on his back as he walks, right until, as he rounds the corner, it cuts off so abruptly that he sways a bit. 

When Lancelot catches himself on the wall, the stones are rough against his fingertips. With no one to witness his bout of weakness in a deserted gallery, he slides briefly to the cold floor, knees kissing the stones, before he sets his jaw, swears, and gets up.

~

It feels as if the warmth radiates from the wood of the door when Lancelot raps his knuckles on it, but it might be just his racing heart.

He waits for a moment, but no one answers, and when he strains his ears, nothing hints that anyone is inside the chamber at all. To be fair, he has forgotten to ask the time, but it has seemed safe to assume the knight dined around the same time as the rest of them. Perhaps, he’s miscalculated.

After waiting for a bit longer, Lancelot turns to leave, feeling both light with relief and suffocating with disappointment, like a falcon straining to take off with a leash still tethering him to the hunter’s wrist. But before he can take another step, the muffled footsteps reach his ears, and he turns around in time for the door to creak open, revealing—-

—-Pym.

“Lance—at last!” she exclaims with a wide grin, and her cheeks are already flushed warm pink, delicate aroma of wine wafting off her skin. “Come in, we’ve been waiting for you.”

He is so taken aback, that it takes him a moment to realise he is stepping inside the room, and then the door closes behind him with a thud, and Gawain looks up at him from the parchments scattered across his desk, his hair gilded by the soft glow of the candles.

“Lancelot,” he says, with just the hint of a smile on his lips, so faint, it is blink, and you miss it. 

Clutching his scabbards tightly, Lancelot doesn’t blink, and neither does he say anything, just nods curtly and keeps staring, caught like a bird in a net by the heavy green stare. He only remembers to look away when Pym appears in the corner of his eye, bright and ever-shifting like a tiny will-o’-the-wisp.

“You can put your cloak over there,” she suggests tactfully, tilting her head in the direction of the table. It is already set — for three, hearty food as simple as the night before, with a generous addition of a scatter of dried apples.

Dragging his gaze away from it, he looks at her smiling face and tries very hard not to blurt out a question of why is she here. Luckily, the girl does not seem to notice, as she waits for him to discard the garments and the scabbards. His hands do not stay free for long, as Pym pushes a silver goblet into them, and then takes a sip from her own, flaming curls falling over her forehead as she hums happily, savouring the taste.

“Try it—it will warm you up.”

Narrowing his eyes, Lancelot inspects the goblet he has been handed. It is just warm, mulled wine. After a careful sip, he takes a deeper inhale, feeling the warmth spread through his veins along with the shivers running down his spine.

“Took a walk?” Gawain nods at his cloak, short fur littered with snow, as he leans back against the desk and crosses his arms. 

“Training,” shakes his head Lancelot, taking another sip, bolder this time, enough to actually quench his thirst. He has gotten so caught up in seeing how well he can throw the knives in the dim light of the gathering dusk, that he has not had time to find anything to drink but the well water that would have frozen his throat on the spot, probably.

“After what you had in the morning?” Pym exclaims, her eyebrows shooting up, and then she frowns, putting her goblet down and gesturing at him impatiently. “Let me see your arm.” 

Lips pressed into a thin line, Lancelot dodges her grabbing hand and takes a step back. “There is no need to. I already checked.”

She looks ready to protest, eyebrows knitted together in a frown and lips pursed in a pout, but then Gawain speaks again.

“Pym, don’t be a mother-hen,” he orders — and it is an order, no matter how soft and calm his voice is; the girl rolls her eyes—which he pretends not to notice—but steps back.

“It’s good that you’re here,” she tells Lancelot in a confidential voice, after taking another swallow. “Maybe you will be able to drag him away from the desk because I wasn’t. Very discourteous of him to invite two ladies and then hide from them in a pile of parchments.”

Glancing between them, Lancelot once again tries to arrange the pieces into something that makes sense, but just as he is about to come up with a reason to leave, his stomach betrays him with a low, displeased grumble.

Now Gawain’s lips definitely twitch in a smile, even though he obviously tries to hide it.

“A just accusation,” he admits, pushing off the desk to stroll over to the table, pulling up a chair on his way which, Lancelot realises, is for him. “Let me make it up to you.”

Gingerly lowering himself on the chair, Lancelot glances between them, waiting for Gawain to start eating before picking up a morsel of bread himself. Last night, he ate like a wolf, but now he makes an effort to at least pretend he has some manners.

The dinner is an odd, odd affair. He always eats alone and having someone to share the meal with is — unusual. Unnerving, in a way, because he has to keep track of what they are saying. It feels like he can somehow make a mistake at something as simple as eating and paying attention.

The good thing about dining with Pym and Gawain is that he barely has to say a word himself. The latter seems to have assumed one of his brighter masks, the glimpse of which Lancelot has seen just a couple of times before when there were Joinings. 

The knight is always invited to every single celebration, it seems, but he is not, naturally. He has just walked past some of them, watching from the outside for a moment before anyone could notice. It’s been easy to single out Gawain in the crowd; he seemed to radiate a warmth that drew people in, as they surrounded him, asking for another story from his travels.

Before, Lancelot only caught glimmers of that fire. Now he gets to see it in all its glory, and it is so bright, he mostly keeps his eyes downcast, picking at the crumbs. The food is just as simple as last night, a stark contrast to the lingering traces of luxury found everywhere in the room, like ghosts of riches clinging to the old stones. 

He has never watched Fey gatherings for long, unwilling to invoke their hostility, and has slithered back into the shadows in which he dwells. But now, though, now he is out of them, basked in the warm light of the hearth and pinned in place by Gawain’s laughing green eyes as they keep straying to him. Trying to distract himself, Lancelot shifts his eyes to Pym, who is in the middle of some entertaining, but a very convoluted story of her time with the raiders.

It sounds — exciting, and not quite what he has expected of her. They have not exactly talked before, even though her room is right next to his. A greeting here, a passing remark on the common issues there—definitely no talking about their pasts.

“Have you ever seen a sea serpent?” she asks, turning to him, her cheeks flushed and a genuine interest written on his face. “Dof told me they exist, but he always joked about everything. I think he just wanted to scare me.”

Pausing in reaching out for another slice of cheese, Lancelot shakes his head. He really wishes he did — they would be nice to draw.

“I did,” Gawain says, leaning back, a slight smirk playing on his lips when Pym turns her head so fast it is a miracle she does not snap it. “They are terrifying, indeed. But there is a beauty in such creatures, too.”

“Have you hunted them?” Pym frowns, resting her chin on intertwined fingers, but the knight shakes his head.

“Too rare. Didn’t want to kill the last one.”

Their eyes meet for a moment, and Lancelot holds it for a second, like one blade sliding down another, before looking away, his gaze landing on the crackling flames in the hearth. Swallowing with effort, he looks away and reaches for another swallow of the wine.

The dim silver of the old plates gleams at him in the light of the candles and the hearth–these are the ones they Fey have not had time to barter for grain and other supplies before harsh weather, and then the siege closed off the roads. The wine is sweet and heavy on his tongue, and the wind howls behind the closed windows, drowned out by the voices of his company.

It is all baffling, though Lancelot is not sure what he has expected. The vivid scenarios in his imagination have definitely not included another person, though he has to admit that once the initial shock has subsided, he is — not exactly happy that Pym is there as well, but it certainly puts his restlessly pacing thoughts at ease.

Mellowed out by the warmth and the meal, Lancelot sags a bit in a chair, wrapping both hands around the goblet as he sips more — he has already had a refill, but it seems fine, he is just a bit hazy, a bit too content with simply watching the fire. 

Glancing over at the rustle of fabric, he sees Pym yawn and then put her goblet away, before rising from her chair and leaning over to give Gawain a peck on the cheek, who flashes her a wry smile and presses a kiss to her hand.

Shifting in his seat, Lancelot tightens the grip on the goblet and then quietens again, fire forgotten.

“Alright, you’re forgiven for being a bore before,” she grins, and then sighs, face twisting in an exaggerated grimace of dismay. “Now I have to go check on that damn moss Polly is growing.”

“Now?” Gawain arches his brow, letting go of her hand and leaning back. “At this hour?”

“Polly’s orders,” the girl shrugs, waving her hand, and then bursts into laughter, pressing her hands to her reddened cheeks. “Oh, you should have seen your face right now.”

“I can’t let you go like this,” the knight remarks mildly, getting up with her.

Glancing between them, Lancelot frowns and slowly lets go of the last apple. But when his eyes flicker to Pym, she appears absolutely unfazed.

“Gawain, I survived on Red Spear’s ship in a storm,” she argues, rolling her eyes and tugging her hair in a simple braid as she walks to the door, Gawain on her heel. “I can survive walking down a hallway while a bit tipsy.”

“Of course,” he nods, and then gestures at someone behind them — when Lancelot cranes his neck to see, he catches a glimpse of the hauberk of one of the patrolling guards. “Escort her to the healers. And see that she doesn’t destroy Polly’s priceless moss.”

In a flurry of flailing hands and promises to get back at the knight, Pym departs, followed by the guard who she immediately strikes a conversation with.

Lancelot takes a sip of wine.

Once the door closes behind her, he watches Gawain turn around with a distant realisation that now there is no one to stand between them, but the warmth and the wine smother the worry before it can flare up again — he only registers that the knight is still walking with slightly more care than usual.

When Gawain stops at the table and picks up the jug to pour the rest of the wine into his own goblet, it is like the mask has been taken off. Or rather, exchanged for the old one, the same calm expression, only the corners of his eyes slightly tightened.

“Why did you train again?” he asks in a low voice, not lifting his eyes from the flowing liquid, and Lancelot sighs, pressing the goblet against his forehead, trying to cool down his feverish head.

“It calms me. Gives me something to do when I am restless.”

With a thoughtful hum, Gawain picks up the goblet, finishes the wine in two long swallows, and puts it down. Throwing Lancelot a sideways glance, he rolls his shoulders and steps closer, standing behind his chair, leaning against its back.

“And do you often feel restless?” he wonders.

Not trusting his voice, Lancelot nods, then slowly puts the goblet down, but does not raise his head, watching the flickers of light reflected in the engraved silver.

“Now, as well?”

With another nod, he licks his lips and takes a shallow breath. “Yes.”

Leaning over, Gawain flattens his palms on the table, caging him in, and lowers his head, the ends of his hair brushing over Lancelot’s shoulders.

“And like this?”

His voice is warm and low, so low even Lancelot barely hears it, but it makes him flush. The warm breath ghosts over his neck, and he shivers, tilting his head to the side just the slightest. 

With a soft, thoughtful hum, Gawain places his hands on his wrists, runs them up, brushing over the sensitive hollow at the inner side of his elbows, circling them for a moment to skim over the sharp ridges of the outside, and then gliding up, over the curve of his shoulders.

He doesn’t say another word, but Lancelot hears the question in the way his hands rest heavily on his skin. Heart beating wildly in his chest, echoing in his throat until he is dizzy with it, he frantically tries to think of something to say, but his mind comes up blank. His thoughts have deserted him, leaving only the dejected anticipation, which is a poor ally when it comes to eloquence.

Leaning back, Gawain sighs softly. “Small steps, then.”

The warm, gentle fingers brush over the nape of his neck, and he shivers, feeling Gawain gather the coarse, messy strands together. They are nothing like the luscious soft curls of Fey women, falling down their backs in shining waves. He has chopped his own off with a dagger in his room after it has started getting in the way when he was fighting. 

Theirs are adorned with tiny trinkets; the only thing to touch his hair is lye soap and water. He does not bring any of those suffocatingly sweet and sticky substances which cling to everyone in a dress, it seems, even though Pym has hesitantly offered some when she has noticed him looking at the vials. 

He just likes it when the wind touches his loose curls, that’s all he has really cared about — before. Now, it seems, he also likes the way Gawain runs his fingers through them, and though there is an edge of danger in baring his neck like this, the thrum of pleasure overwhelms it. 

When he shudders again, almost violently, at the gentle caress to the nape of his neck, Gawain stops.

“Too much?” he asks calmly, and Lancelot swallows and wets his lips, forcing the dizziness down before finding the wits to speak.

“No,” he breathes out.

The touch returns, warm and intoxicating, blinding in its bliss, and Lancelot bites his lips not to moan, but can’t help a heavy, shaky exhale.

With the firm but gentle tug, Gawain forces his head to the side, and he huffs angrily, but allows it, craning his neck. It is worth it, because now the knight’s fingers are sliding around the shell of his ear, over the hinge of his jaw, and Lancelot clenches it tight, his eyelashes fluttering as he starts to breathe heavier. 

Trying to fight back the haze rolling into his mind like clouds over the hills, he exhales again. Just as the knight runs his nails over the tender skin, Lancelot digs his fingers into the table until it hurts, until the white ghost of the bone rises to the surface, he is sure the wood would splinter —

“Told you,” Gawain murmurs, and chuckles, low and amused, as he brushes his hair back, “a cat.”

He is heady, almost as if he has drunk too much of the wine, a pleasant buzz radiating through his spine, unravelling the knots in his back the same way the nimble fingers untangle the ones in his hair.

“Gawain,” he starts, and then stops, startled by how hoarse his voice is.

The knight pauses as well, then resumes, tucking one of the strands behind his ear, fingertips brushing over his temple—and it’s such a small, nonchalant gesture, but Lancelot blacks out for a moment.

He still feels the next caress, and the one after, how they grow bolder, fingers burying in his hair until he is heady with it. But then Gawain yanks at the entangled strands too harsh while unweaving the knot, and Lancelot hisses, jerks away, then nearly bites into the fingers catching his jaw, but stops in time, merely exhaling heavily into the muzzle of the knight’s palm.

“Sorry,” Gawain says calmly, taking his hand away and gliding his fingers over the hurt spot. “Didn’t see that one.”

It’s gentle again, and his mind is still reeling from being silenced like this; but the pain is enough to remind Lancelot of where he is, who he is — it all pierces through the warm, dark haze like beams of light when you yank the curtains open after a long, wild night.

“Not—an animal,” he forces out, and then swallows thickly, when the fingers glide down his throat, over the vulnerable ridges.

“No,” Gawain agrees quietly, leaning down to brush his lips over Lancelot’s cheek, merely a teasing slide, before drawing away and burying his fingers in his hair again. “Yet I am still not sure who you are.”

Heart thudding like a bell, Lancelot clenches his hand in a fist, and forces his tongue to move, voice coming out hoarse. “I am your best fighter. You said so yourself.” 

“Yes—but you’re still not the best you can be,” Gawain says in an even voice, as he separates the strands with his fingers and then picks three up and starts overlaying them. 

“But you said…”

“I saw the potential, and I wanted to get you out. What? Why are you glaring? Don’t misunderstand me there — you are gifted.” 

“But?” Lancelot prompts darkly because there is always a “but” in statements like this when they are about him.

“But you’re unstable,” Gawain says simply, and loops one strand around the others, before picking up new ones. “Which is… Understandable.”

Lancelot does not think it is. He does not think any of them can even hope to understand. 

“How so?” he grits out, throwing his head back to glare at the knight, before wrangling it out of his hands.

“Well. You are a...” 

“I will kill you if you say it,” he promises, fingers curling into tight fists again, and Gawain sighs.

A short silence follows, as he keeps weaving the hair together and Lancelot keeps seething, but lets him do it.

“You can’t fight who you are,” he says at last.

“I bloody well can,” Lancelot snarls. “Just like I fight the rest.”

“Lancelot. It’s not your fault. You have been hurt.”

“It’s not because of that.”

“You mean—” he trails off for a second, his frown deepening, “—no one tried to take advantage of you?”

Lancelot shakes his head and keeps his eyes firmly on the table as he adds. “They never had a chance. Father made sure of it.”

Gawain makes a soft, surprised noise, that makes him want to hit something. Just because his Father was a raving lunatic intent on decimating his entire folk… He breaks off that chain of thought because the dark void it leads to is breathing with such danger that even he does not want to stand on its edge and peer inside.

“Others could not know I was — a woman,” he explains, wincing at the word, but it is not like there is another way to say it. “So, I never undressed. Never slept next to anyone.”

Letting go of his shoulder, Gawain takes a seat next to him. He clasps his hands together in front of his mouth and studies him for a moment. “Even when you were young?”

Studiously not meeting the knight’s eyes, Lancelot shrugs with one shoulder, before grabbing the goblet again. “No.”

“It must be maddening for you to live with so many people,” Gawain notes, not looking away from him as he gulps down the rest of the wine.

Lancelot thinks about all the derisive remarks, about the lingering icy glances trailing after him like a gown as he walks, head held high, toward the door. Sometimes, he hears them through the thin walls or from behind the closed doors. The weight of this gown woven out of their scorn and fear bears heavy on his shoulders, makes him sore from constantly tensing, straightening, his body locking up in a twitching spasm the moment he sees more than two people stand together. 

“Yeah,” he says, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. “Pym snores. I can’t sleep.” 

There is a hint of a smile on Gawain’s lips that almost reaches his eyes. Almost.

“I told you you can stay here,” he reminds him quietly, and Lancelot scoffs.

“I can’t risk anyone seeing me when I leave,” he says, bringing the goblet to his lips again.

Now the smile that is tugging at the corner of the knight’s mouth seems more real when he tilts his head and asks:

“Is that the only reason you’re not staying?”

Freezing, Lancelot swallows with effort, and then slowly puts his goblet down. Tightening his fingers around the stem of it, he throws a quick look at Gawain, who is smiling in earnest now, and then averts his eyes without saying a word.

For a short while, they sit in silence. The wind has picked up over the evening, howling in the chimneys and even with the fire still burning bright in the hearth, Lancelot can’t help but notice the cold touch of the draft. Signing, he buries his head in his hands for a moment, and then draws back, glancing at the door. 

“So, not tonight,” Gawain summarises, and when Lancelot shakes his head, he sighs and gets up, reaching out to pick up his goblet. The mere sound makes Lancelot want to crawl away in shame, and the apology is on the tip of his tongue, but he catches it and crumbles the words before they can spill, shoves them down his own throat to choke out in another poorly drawn beast later.

Then Gawain returns, leaning over him, and when Lancelot looks up at him, coiled up tight, ready to apologise as much as he is ready to lash out, the knight just catches his chin, brushes a thumb over his lip, as if urging him to keep silent, and then lets go.

“Let me at least walk you to your room,” he asks quietly, reaching out to tuck the stray lock of hair behind his ear. 

“Sure,” Lancelot breathes out at once because this he can do. And then, because he doesn’t know how to say it otherwise, he turns his head a bit to lean in the knight’s palm, rubbing his cheek against it once, before glancing up again.

Gawain is smiling. It’s as wonderful and terrifying as seeing the sun rise over the desolate winter fields.

Captivated by that light, Lancelot is unmoving, frozen in the moment, but then Gawain draws back, and he comes to himself and leans back as well before he can follow on the instinct. 

When he tries to get up, the world sways a little bit too much, and he leans on the edge of the desk with one arm, trying to drag himself out of the daze.

“How is this wine so strong,” he breathes out, glancing at the goblet. It has just been the second, it should not be anywhere near enough to take him out like this.

“It is not for a man,” Gawain says, steadying him by the waist with a firm hand that makes Lancelot jump and tense as if he has been struck, even though it barely rests there long enough for him to regain his balance. “An underfed, tired woman, on the other hand…”

Shooting him a dark glare, Lancelot tries to push him away, but fails, panic slowly rising in his chest, clawing its way out of his throat with a shallow, shaky exhale.

“Easy, Lance,” Gawain mutters as he presses a hand to the back of his head, a slow, gentle stroke as if to soothe a scared animal. “It’s not the wine. Not only.” 

“What else,” Lancelot forces out, wondering how could he not smell it, but he wasn’t checking this time, so stupid, to think Gawain would not do that... 

“This.”

The hand on his neck moves, making him shudder, claw desperately at the man’s shoulders, it glides down his spine and then stops, resting like a hot brand on the small of his back. 

“Where are we—going?” Lancelot frowns when his voice trembles a bit, raising and falling in odd, jerky gasps, before he shakes his head, trying to clear his mind. 

The knight’s reply is laced with dark amusement lurking just under the surface. “I’m taking you to your room. As you wanted.”

He expects the words to bring relief, but instead, the ringing in his head grows, filling the hollow void where the shreds of thoughts hang like torn fabric. He feels wounded. More than any bruises on his ribs from their morning scuffle can justify.

It must be written in his eyes because when Gawain meets them, he shakes his head firmly. “I am not taking you to bed when we are both sore and tired like this. Come.”

The hand on his back slips away, but before the knight can take a step, Lancelot shoots his hand out and grabs him by the forearm, holding him in place. He is shivering, again, awash with some desperation that is almost courage, but not really, it is more of a — starvation. 

He doesn’t plead, but just barely. Enough is said by his fingers tightening around the warm, golden skin, the soft short hairs folding against his palm, as he anchors himself on this solid line, on the tangible connection to the world outside the tempest ravaging his head.

Half-turned away from him already, Gawain stops, glances down at his hand, cocking an eyebrow, and then sighs, gently tugging his arm out. He barely meets any resistance, Lancelot’s fingers just catching for a moment longer before falling away.

“Alright,” the knight says, turning to face him and crossing his arms. “What do you propose, then? I am not sleeping on the floor. I am just as roughed up as you are.”

Worrying his lip for a moment, Lancelot glances at the bed and deflates. It is probably safe. Gawain does not look remotely interested in assaulting his dignity at the moment—which is a strange thought, no matter how you look at it, both degrading and calming.

“Can still be worse,” he says, raising his chin and trying to remember how Kaze squints at people when she wants to devastate them with a single look. He is not sure it is coming out quite how he intends it to. Judging by the amused, low chuckle, Gawain doesn’t think so either.

“How do you have so much spite still is beyond me,” the knight notes, shaking his head as he puts out the candles. Then he tilts his head, watching Lancelot tug his shoes off, stumbling a bit on one leg, and then crawl in bed. “You’re not going to undress?”

“No,” Lancelot breathes out darkly. Then, pulling a fur over his shoulders, he quietens, watching with wary eyes how the knight sits on the edge of the bed, tugging off one boot, then the other, and when they thud to the ground, Lancelot jumps a bit. He finally realises why they say that strange phrase about waiting for another shoe to drop.

And then Gawain tugs his shirt off in one movement and turns, sliding under the furs next to him. Lancelot forgets to breathe for a moment, pulls his shoulders back and tightens his stomach, just trying to put some distance between them without being obvious about it.

But the man does not do anything. He just stretches out on his back, sighing deeply, and folding one arm under his head. Warmth radiates from him, as well as the light smell of wine. Lancelot waits, coiled tight like a spring in some places, but unravelling like yarn in others, his body flickering between the fear and the desire to taste some of that safety.

Nothing happens. Gawain breathes. The wind howls.

Somewhere, a door thuds, making him tense. Then soft footsteps go past the door, quickly fading away, and the expectant silence returns, deafening Lancelot with his own breathing.

Finally, he lets out a soft breath, and settles a bit in the mattress, digging with his shoulder in it as he tries to nestle. It is still terribly uncomfortable. There is no way he will fall asleep like that, might as well just roll out of bed and leave— somehow — without ending up sprawled on Gawain who is blocking the escape route solidly…

“Lance?” he calls out softly, and Lancelot startles, then blinks at him guiltily. “For gods’ sake, just sleep.”

There is a short pause, only filled with the crackle of embers in the hearth and their breathing - Gawain’s slow and deep one and his own shallow and fast.

“Do I not…” he begins in a slightly trembling voice, clutching the fur tightly.

“You do.” Gawain interrupts calmly, and then swallows thickly, pausing for a moment, but in the end, does not say anything else. 

Lancelot, though, cannot force the words down. Tearing his eyes away from the vulnerable, yet somehow strict line of the man’s throat, he looks up at his face. “Then why…”

“Because I don’t need to get you drunk to make you want me.” 

With a sharp intake of breath, Lancelot falls silent for a short moment, fidgets with the strands of fur a moment and then tries again. “I heard…”

“You listen too much to the gossip,” Gawain cuts him off, not unkindly, and sighs. “Nothing is happening tonight in this bed except sleep.”

There is a commanding note in his voice that makes Lancelot blink in surprise and then shift, uneasy. Curled up on his side, he watches how the knight closes his eyes in clear dismissal of the conversation and arches slightly, before sagging back into the bed.

With a short, slightly desperate call to the gods — any and all, he is still on the fence in that regard — Lancelot closes his eyes as well; and though he is sure his beating heart would keep him awake through the night, it calms down bit by bit, lulled to sleep by the steady breathing next to him, warmth and wine coursing through his veins.

~

He wakes up with a warm hand on his shoulder shaking him awake — and immediately shoots up, catching it and tugging to disarm the assailant, his hand going for the throat—

—Gawain catches it halfway, pries his fingers away and holds them firmly in his hand.

Blinking rapidly, Lancelot draws a shaky breath in and pulls his arm away. 

“Good morning,” the knight says in a hushed voice, and tilts his head, watching him draw away, tugging the fur up. It is easy for him to do — he is already dressed, and looks wide awake if a bit pale.

It is still dark in the room, even though the curtains are already open, grey pre-dawn light streaming in through the dim old windows. Glancing around, Lancelot finds his swords leaning against the door, where he has left them the night before, and settles back a bit, shifting his eyes back to Gawain, who is still studying him.

“Morning,” he replies, barely audible, and then tries to sit up, a bit disoriented from his rough awakening, legs tangling in the furs. “Is something wrong?”

“Just thought you might want to get to your room before anyone sees you. You seemed concerned yesterday.”

Reality slowly filtering in, Lancelot flushes and curses under his breath, then swings his legs over the bed and hurries to get up, burning his bare feet on the cold floor.

“Calm down. They are still asleep,” Gawain notes, stepping aside to let him rush to the door after tugging the boots on in such haste he nearly falls.

Nodding, Lancelot stretches, wincing at the pain in his ribs, realises how the man would know, swears again, this time inwardly, and then hoists his swords up.

“Lancelot?”

“Yes?” he breathes out, straightening and pushing the hair out of his eyes.

“You forgot something.”

Getting off the floor, Gawain walks over to him in a few wide strides, coming to stand so close, Lancelot nearly takes a step back, but doesn’t, instead just raising his eyes to meet the other’s, lifting his eyebrows in a silent question.

There is a bundle of cloth in the knight’s arms — oh. The cloak. To think that one day he would forget it… Closing his fingers around it, Lancelot swallows — and, when Gawain take a step even closer, he doesn’t try to move away.

The warm lips brush against the corner of his mouth, hover just shy of meeting his own, the gentle tickle driving him insane - and he must be, because the next thing Lancelot does, he turns his head and captures that cruel, teasing mouth, catching the knight on the inhale.

It is blinding, breathless—

— it’s everything; and somehow even more than that.

It’s like stepping out of the dark into the noon sunlight, Lancelot thinks wildly, and then he is too busy clawing at Gawain’s shoulders, trying to drag him closer—

—Gawain, who doesn’t step away, just presses slightly into him and raises his hand, digging a thumb into his chin, urging him to open his mouth further—and after that, Lancelot no longer thinks anything at all.

There is something realigning in his mind, he can feel it shift, grand and elegant like celestial mechanics, with every gentle caress, with the way they meet each other, upward surge melting into an embrace.

Then the knight pulls away and leans back to look at him, and Lancelot meets his eyes for a moment, but the green is scolding, and he hides out of habit, too shaken still by this strange change, turning his face to the side.

“Go now,” Gawain murmurs, brushing a thumb over his chin, cradling it and then sliding his palm up to brush his hair away. “Before you are late for your training.”

Dazed, Lancelot does not immediately realise what he is being asked to do, but then he comes to his senses and nods, taking a step back. Running a hand through his hair, he turns away, tries to remember which way to go, his thoughts drowned out by the heart that is beating as wildly as tocsin.

Finally gathering his wits and taking a step in the right direction, Lancelot pauses and turns back to see that even though the door is still open, Gawain has retreated to the company of the scrolls and maps. He desperately wants to ask whether this agreement still holds; whether he gets to have more, and how he will have to pay this time.

But Gawain does not look up from the desk, and Lancelot does not find the courage to interrupt him Instead, he turns on his heel and marches off, the usual tempest in his head unfurling like a hurricane, fluttering restlessly over him — but this time is not a dark banner, but something vivid, even though it is just as violent.

The hallways are thankfully empty, and the only few patrolling guards are tired enough after a night shift that they don’t notice him as he hides in one of the countless alcoves and waits until they walk past. Once the danger is over, Lancelot glances left and back and steals down the corridor to the ladies’ wing.

He feels like a criminal. It is ridiculous to feel like that now, because of—of warmth that he carries away in his hands, a tiny lick of a flame kindling behind his ribs, lingering on his lips. It’s the least of the crimes he has committed, but it feels like the greatest.

He is not supposed to have this.

Most women are still asleep, and the few who aren’t are servants, not running in the same circles as the ones who seem to like to sharpen their tongue using him as a whetting stone. Carefully, gently, Lancelot opens the door — it only creaks a little — and slips inside his room.

He waits for a short time, sitting on the edge of his bed until the doors start to open and the voices spill out in the halls like murmuring water. Taking one last glance over himself to make sure nothing will betray his affairs, Lancelot gets up and slips out of the room again.

As usual, he goes down the hallway without greeting anyone—until he runs into the familiar flaming figure, nearly taking her down, as she glances around, squinting like a mole.

“Oh, Lance—when did you come back?” Pym asks blearily, slinging a hand over her eyes to shield them from the light, which is steadily growing brighter. It looks like she has fallen asleep right on the couch in the common room.

“Just after you—but you were asleep already,” Lancelot answers quietly, stomach roiling as he watches her face, but the girl just pauses for a second and then nods.

“Yeah, that wine was a lot. How are you so cheery? And where are you going—training? Wait, the arm…”

Lancelot does not wait—he is already out, feet carrying him to the training yard.

It is time to hack something in pieces to calm his thudding heart.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Mother Mother - Wrecking Ball.


	3. a hundred arms, a hundred years

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Florence + The Machine - 100 Years.

Tugging his gloves off, Lancelot sighs with content, craning his neck to the side to stretch the slightly sore muscle. The ache is mostly gone, just a dull hum that he barely notices as he takes the outer layer of his armour off, eager to get away before the rest of the Fey come flooding into the armoury. 

It is different, sometimes just taking a hit instead of twisting like a snake and leaping all over the place. Without having to adhere to the faith of being protected by God and with Fey blacksmith more agreeable than Man Blood one, he has finally fashioned himself something reasonable. 

It is a relief. God was doing a shit job of protecting him. Lancelot so far is doing much better, even if he might have taken it a bit too far and slept in the armour inside the castle, too.

It was hardly unwarranted in the first month.

At least now, with a decent lock on his door and others getting used to the idea that his blade has been redirected at their enemies, the only thing that keeps him awake at night are guilt, lust, and last but not least, Pym, who is housed next door. 

It is not even that she snores — he has slept before in the tents close enough to dozens of rowdy, simple men, who were ten times worse in that regard. But she sometimes talks, languages jumbling together, and there is no clear pattern to her noises, no regularity; he always startles out of his light sleep. 

Sighing, Lancelot rubs at his eyes with one hand. Maybe he can catch a bit of sleep today, unless there is an emergency—or unless Arthur finds him something to do, Arthur who is right behind him, beeswax, leather and chamomile drifting in the air.

“What’s that— _did you braid your hair?”_

Heart leaping into his throat, he twirls around, clasping a hand over his nape. A bright, boyish grin greets him as the man jumps up to perch on the edge of the table and tilts his head.

“For Gawain?” he asks in a confidential tone. He does not sound as if he will mock him, but Lancelot still frowns and shifts so that his back is not to the room anymore. 

“Of course not,” he snaps, his fingers caught in the stubborn strands that are now tangled beyond salvation, refusing to come apart. Perhaps he should just chop them off completely, that would make them shut up about it, at least.

Finally untangling the stubborn braid and letting out a relieved breath, Lancelot lets his fingers fall down — only to find another braid right next to it. Swearing through clenched teeth, he shakes his head, hoping that the loose strands would somewhat cover the treacherous giveaway.

“Of course,” Arthur agrees amiably, and Lancelot stumbles, surprised by how easily he lets him off the hook — but then he sees the familiar mischievous gleam in his eyes, as the sellsword cocks his head to the other side. “So he did it, then? That’s sweet.”

Shoving the dagger sheathe back into the bundle with more force than necessary, Lancelot exhales sharply, and then he pauses, staring at the hilt he has not seen before. It is a simple, but finely crafted one, good leather wrapped around it, razor-sharp edge and just the perfect grip for his palm — only it isn’t his. 

Frown deepening and a soft, confused noise caught in his throat, he reaches out to brush his fingers against it.

“Have you seen where this one came from?” he asks, glancing at Arthur again, momentarily forgiving his nosiness in favour of retrieving information.

“Yes,” Arthur nods, and then continues, not even bothering to lower his voice as he glances at the Fey who are entering the armoury, their cheeks flushed and voices raised. “Gawain dropped by earlier, left it for you.” Giving the others a friendly nod, the man turns back to him. “Why do you look so aghast?..”

Before Lancelot can answer, one of the Tusks walking past bumps his shoulder into his back and grins, dark eyes gleaming as he winks at him.

“See that Gawain doesn’t slip you another dagger without you noticing.”

He doesn’t say it loud enough to prompt others to join in on the taunting, but a few curious glances are thrown his way, and the rumour takes shape almost visibly. Clenching his jaw, Lancelot refuses to meet Arthur’s eyes — or anyone else’s for that matter — and turns away, the hilt of the dagger looming in the corner of his eye. He refuses to look at it, too.

The men clamour behind his back, make him tense and ache with humiliation when he hears what they say. It is nothing particularly nasty — Arthur is still here, and everyone knows how he gets if he thinks someone is threatening the peace he and Gawain have built with such effort.

But right now, he just doesn’t seem to find anything wrong with what to him is probably some light-hearted teasing. And it should be like this, Lancelot tells himself, squeezing his eyes shut, for a moment. He is not a girl to wail over a crude remark. Men do it all the time.

He almost reaches for the braid again, intent on just tearing the strands out if that is what it takes, but halts his hand half-way through, fingers lingering on the neck. With a bitter twist to his mouth, he forces himself to go back to the routine, letting it replace the rapidly growing and just as swiftly rotting weeds of insults he could hurl their way.

It is better to lay low. Let it all just wash over him — they will leave him alone faster this way. And then he can always turn a tad more vicious during sparring if some don’t.

Keeping silent, Lancelot yanks a bit harder at the drawstrings, tying the bag with gear. Slinging it over his back — he still prefers to keep it in his room rather than in the armoury — he gives Arthur a curt nod and walks out, leaving the roaring men behind. They are not laughing at him — but he flinches all the same.

Three flights of stairs later, the seething anger in his chest has abated somewhat. It is just a dagger, Lancelot tells himself, as he walks past the servants rushing down the hallway with baskets of laundry in their hands. And a damn good dagger at that, he admits wistfully, both eager to try it out and ashamed of accepting the gift.

The scents in the air around him shift into something just a tad sweeter, as he rounds the corner and enters the women’s wing. Someone is sewing in the corner, friendly gossip murmuring all around them, as he walks across the common room, a menacing but awkward presence that is always glaringly out of place here. 

Their eyes follow him as he rounds the corner, silent and tense. Rubbing a hand over the back of his neck, Lancelot sighs and reaches for the door handle of his room, but then he pauses, realising it is already open.

Frown pulling his brows together, he pushes it open with his fingertips and steps over the threshold, already shifting his weight into the fighting stance.

“What is going on?” he asks tersely, glancing around the small room that right now reminds a battlefield. The intruders freeze — or at least one of them does, caught in an awkward half-bent crouch over his chest, while the other just looks up and rolls his eyes.

“Ah—you’re moving,” Pym informs him with a nervous smile plastered on her face, as she tucks the ringlet of hair behind her ear, and straightens with his shirt still in her hands. There is a meagre bundle of clothes already laid out the chest, crowned with a single mitten.

“I am?” Lancelot stares silently at them, something in him screaming at seeing his things touched, before he snaps out of his stupor. “Where? Why?”

“Just a room nearby, it got empty last week when Alys married,” Pym chatters away happily, assuming he knows the person in question, which he doesn’t. “You’ll love it, it’s much — bigger, and quieter. Which is not difficult, but...”

“Gawain said you wanted this,” Percival deadpans, the first sound he has made since Lancelot came in. 

The boy is staring rather darkly at him, and Lancelot frowns back, unsure of what has changed in a couple of days since the last time they spent any considerable time together. That day he taught him how to throw knives, and got some more lessons in Fey language in exchange. It is a bit of a torture, to have Percival as either a student or a teacher, but it works out in the end. At least enough for the boy not to glare at him as he does now.

“He did?” Lancelot pauses, before he recalls their conversation last night, and clenches his jaw. The undefeated braid burns like a brand against his scalp, and he takes a slow inhale to stop himself from lashing out on the Skymen. They are just pawns in this strange game Gawain is playing.

“I will. Come back to help, I suppose,” he grits out.

 _Right after I murder your knight and hide his body in that closet in his bedroom,_ he adds in his head. _It seemed big enough._

“Oh, you don’t have to do anything, he said you’re busy—and it’s my day off,” Pym reassures, utterly oblivious to his homicidal intentions. Percival hums in agreement, a sarcastic gleam in his eyes that makes Lancelot squirm and nearly flush in anger.

And then the boy pushes off the wall and tugs out a loose stone at his side, revealing a small dip where the drawings are hidden, rolled neatly into a bundle and tied with twine.

“What’s that?” he asks, tilting his head with false innocence that makes Lancelot grit his teeth.

“Don’t touch that! Don’t,” he gestures for emphasis, pauses, and then darts forward to snatch the stack, clutching it to his chest. Pym and Percival are watching him in silence, as he backs out, not turning their back on them. All the while, he keeps trying to say something, but in the end, just throws the last withering glare at them, and storms off.

On his way, he pauses in one of the quieter corridors to deposit the drawing safely in another hidden nook. 

Then he comes back to check that it is not seen from the other angle, and only after that finally continues his quest.

Hunting the knight in the maze of the castle hallways is almost exciting, but he is growing impatient fast and resorts to asking for help. Catching the familiar scent of cat hair, linseed oil and rosemary, he turns the corner sharply and almost runs into Kaze, who is inspecting the crate of turnips brought from the inner yard with a displeased curl to her lips.

“Have you seen Gawain?” he blurts, and she frowns, but nods, eyes still riveted on the crate in front of her. Glancing down as well, he notes that the wood appears to have suffered at rats’ teeth, but the turnips are barely bitten. Probably another accidentally poisonous type the young druid apprentice has grown.

“He is in the study.”

At this hour, it would not be the one in the library, but his private one; all the better, since the knight prefers to work in solitude there. Unless the council is also seeking him today, outside of the official meetings, as they are prone to do.

“Is he alone?” Lancelot clarifies, and Kaze pauses studying the crate at that to give him a stern look, before nodding slowly.

“Thank you,” he says earnestly, then, under her heavy stare, feels his cheeks redden. “I just wanted to talk.”

“Of course,” she drawls, cocking an eyebrow at him and still not blinking. She can hold someone’s gaze for an uncanny amount of time. 

He pauses, worries his lip for a second. “I shouldn’t?”

“How about you give me that arsenal of yours,” Kaze suggests, not unkindly, as she reaches her open palm out, “and then you can talk to Gawain all you want.”

“No,” Lancelot says. “I will need it. To talk.”

They are staring at each other in silence for a moment longer, as he clutches the bundle to his chest.

“Alright,” he snaps, tugging out the gift and roughly shoving the rest in her hand. “This — this is his. Not mine.”

Tucking the dagger into his belt, Lancelot turns on his heel and flees; he can swear the slightly amused, but mostly exasperated stare follows him until he dives into a different hallway. But it is only two flights of stairs now that separate him from his destination, and he focuses on that instead, trying to choose what to say first.

Throwing the door of the study open, Lancelot marches inside, and Gawain looks up at him from the desk, as impassive as ever, surrounded by heaps of books and parchments stacked tall like barricades. Save for that, he is indeed alone, and when the door cuts off the din of the hallway, Lancelot imagines it sounds like a trap snapping shut.

The knight’s face does not change, save for a politely raised brow, as Lancelot strides over, then flattens his palms on the top of the desk, and looms over him with all the menacing air he can summon, which is a lot.

“I am not your bed warmer,” he snarls in his face, close enough that he can see the green eyes widen, almost imperceptibly, before narrowing again.

“No,” Gawain agrees calmly, a droplet of ink swelling on the tip of the quill clutched in his fingers. “Not yet.”

Grabbing a tankard standing aside, Lancelot splashes it in his face. 

The water skies down the man’s cheeks but soothes some of the fire raging in Lancelot’s own chest. Leaning back, he takes in the view, a slow smile spreading on his lips as he notices the knight’s jaw tighten.

“Alright. I deserve that. But why are you…” he starts.

Pulling the dagger from behind his belt, Lancelot smashes it on the table between them, and straightens, crossing his arms.

“Why was this in my gear?”

Running a hand over his face to take some of the droplets off, Gawain looks at the dagger, then at him, his expression closing off again.

“Just a gift. If it’s not what you wanted...”

Lancelot reaches out for a mug, that one filled with stale lavender tea, but this time the knight catches his wrist. A short struggle ensues, made all the more awkward by the fact that they are bent over the table, and Gawain is still clutching the document in his other hand.

Finally, Lancelot manages to yank his hand out and step back, cradling it to his chest with a frustrated hiss. Gawain, in turn, sets his jaw and glares right back, before lifting the dripping parchment and inspecting it.

“You’re done?” he inquires coldly, before giving the paper a thorough shake, droplets flying into the air. It is ruined, Lancelot notices, and is immediately flooded with guilt. 

However, he schools his face in haughty expression, as he straightens and folds his arms again.

“Only if you are.”

They glower at each other, until the air seems to heat up so much Lancelot wonders distantly why are the parchments not drying faster. With a frustrated, short noise deep in his throat, Gawain raises his hands.

“I am sorry,” he exclaims, and buries a hand in his hair, yanking with frustration at the reddish strands. “I should not have said that, it was — awful. I just can’t fucking stand when people barge in like this.” 

“Why is that?” Lancelot drawls, tilting his chin up and narrowing his eyes.

“Because it is my space,” Gawain replies with a frown, bowing his head in a bullish manner he sometimes has.

He does not even bother replying, just looks at him, unblinkingly, watching one emotion after another flicker, until the knight raises his hands in surrender and then presses one to his eyes for a moment.

“Point taken,” he mutters. “Do you want me to call it off?”

Lancelot thinks for a moment and then shrugs. “By now they would have moved everything. And Percy will take revenge on me if I make him do it again.”

“Well,” Gawain mumbles, breathing out and dropping his hand as he looks away, “if Percy would take revenge, then we definitely shouldn’t do it.”

It takes a moment for Lancelot to realise he is still being mocked. He frowns again, but the anger is gone, spilled out in an outburst and now replaced by vague frustration that is not enough to go swinging again. He doesn’t like fighting, not like that, and the verbal duels exhaust him far too fast.

In search of distraction, his eyes jump to the parchment held in the knight’s hand.

“What is that?” he asks, craning his neck to take a look, but Gawain takes it away before he can make out what the curly letters say. 

“That,” he says grimly, shaking it again, “was a very important treaty with the king of the Highlands.”

Lancelot’s blood runs cold, and he tries to say something, but it is as if his tongue has turned to lead, and all he manages to stammer out is: “Sorry, I—let me see, maybe I can…”

He snatches it out of the knight’s hand, nearly tearing it in half in the process, and runs his eyes down the page, only to realise that it describes the lineage records of the women living in the castle. Many of the names are familiar from the talk in the common room, though none are close enough for him to call not even friends, but — allies? 

His own name stands at the bottom of the page, fresh ink blurred until he can only recognise the first and the last two letters. But there is no one else with a name like this in the entire castle, so there is no mistake; or rather, none that Lancelot can point out without starting an argument he hasn’t been able to win once in the last ten years.

“What is this? It’s not a treaty,” he says quietly, not raising his eyes as the knight sits back, the chair creaking softly.

“No,” Gawain shakes his head and leans back to stretch, wincing when the joint pops. “But maybe now you will think twice before drenching me while I work.”

Filing away the imprecise phrasing to later use against him, Lancelot tightens his fingers on the damp, crumpled sheepskin and looks up. “Why am I on this?”

Gawain leans forward again, clasping his hands and resting them on the desk as he studies him with a strange, speculative expression. The early afternoon sunlight streams in the high windows, catching on the dust specks flowing in the air and on the copper strands.

“After this, I am asking myself the same question,” he mutters under his breath, and Lancelot frowns, fisting the parchment until it rips a bit with a miserable sound. For a moment, they both just look at it, and then he hears Gawain sigh and glances up.

“Leave it,” the knight waves his hand. “I have been looking at it long enough that I remember them all.”

Leaning back, he swings precariously on his chair, while Lancelot continues sitting on the desk. A torn parchment is discarded on the floor, the water eating away the name — it makes him feel a bit lighter. Enough to reach out and try to tip Gawain backwards, but the knight is faster, catching his hand before he can upset the balance.

“You haven’t answered,” Lancelot points out, tilting his chin up when Gawain frowns at him.

“And I won’t,” he snaps, letting go of his hand and leaning forward, the chair legs meeting the floor with a heavy thud. “Not today. Now tell me, was there something you needed or did you just want to start a fight?”

Forcing back the flush creeping on his cheeks, Lancelot narrows his eyes. “I did not start it. It was a reasonable response.”

“Was it?” Gawain narrows his eyes, the green flaring up again with anger. “So, I explain to a guy that all of my fighters are to be fed equally—and I am in the wrong? I get you a better place to sleep and a decent weapon, and you act as if I defiled you. Is that your bruised pride speaking, or what is it?”

Ignoring the heat spreading in his chest again, shame, anger and a strange, itching feeling of being taken care of against his will, Lancelot looks away. “I didn’t ask for any of this, but—no, it’s not that.”

“Then what?” the knight breathes out with exasperation, but there is tiredness bleeding into his voice that makes Lancelot pause and try to string the tangled thoughts into something reasonable.

“I don’t want people to know, and if you do this, it’s only a matter of time. Arthur already does. The others suspect.”

Gawain lifts his brows in another polite mockery that sets his teeth on edge. “Suspect that you eat and sleep?”

“Suspect what I give in return,” he says, low and serious, trying to convey what he means, and some of it seems to break past the arrogant facade, as the knight frowns.

“It is not a trade when one is courting a woman…” he begins, gesturing with one hand, but Lancelot does not let him finish.

“I am not a woman.”

Gawain looks him pointedly up and down, and his skin crawls in a mostly unpleasant way. 

“I’ve seen you naked. You are one, whether you want it or not.”

Lancelot considers taking his second dagger out, but instead takes a deep breath in. And out. In and out. Do not kill the knight of Fey in the castle full of Fey. It won’t solve the problem. The others also think that.

And he might be born a woman, but if he gives them the slightest reason to think they can treat him like one, he is going to end up even less respected than he is now. If it escalates far enough, then assaulted; eventually, raped. That nearly happened already when someone tried to prove to his friends that the infamous Monk is less dangerous when caught in the common baths — alone. 

All that was proven that day is that a towel in skilled hands can be a weapon efficient enough to bring a man down.

Lancelot has very skilled hands. And it has been before he vaulted over to get the broom. After that, it has really been a child’s play. 

“Nevermind,” he mutters, and gets up to leave, pushing off the table and filling the familiar cold bitterness crawling up his throat. It is harsher now, shards of ice piercing his lungs, a stark contrast to the warmth he has been carrying away from the man in the morning.

“Wait,” Gawain says, pushing up from the chair as well. “What is wrong with it? Tell me. Please.”

Eyes trained on the corner of the bookshelf, Lancelot draws a breath in, and carefully chooses the parts that matter right now. It feels like picking the rubble of the walls that he keeps building to ward off the entire world, only for them to keep crashing down.

“I am not weak. Don’t need coddling. And I —,” he trails off, then tries again. “I might look like a woman,” he says, the words rotten and sour in his mouth. “But I am not like — not like them. Doesn’t matter now, but — I don’t have a price. Not even for you.”

“I never thought of you like that. And I don’t think now.” When he scoffs and moves to leave, Gawain reaches for his wrist, pulling him back gently. Half-heartedly, he tries to tug it out but then gives up, the anger petering out.

When Lancelot turns his head, the green eyes that meet him are so sincere, that he pauses, letting them draw him closer. The distant screaming in his head grows quieter, the words no longer cutting, when a faint frown crosses Gawain’s face. 

“It’s not coddling to simply make sure you are well-fed and rested. Neither it is a barter. Have I done anything — not said, but done — that made you believe I think so little of you?”

Swallowing around a lump in his throat, Lancelot considers. He was so scared last night, and before that, but not once did Gawain ask for something in return, even though he could have. Truth be told, he could have done a lot of things, and there would hardly be anyone to hold him responsible for that — if Lancelot even told them.

But in the end... 

“No,” he replies quietly. 

“I care about you, that’s it.” Gawain takes both his hands now, cradling them in his palms. “And I am sorry that I let my mouth run without thinking. It’s—I lash out because I almost haven’t slept in two days. It’s not an excuse, but this has nothing to do with you, I swear.”

Drawing his eyes away from their hands, Lancelot frowns. “But last night?..”

At that, the knight tenses, a dark shadow flickering over his face, even though it is gone in a blink. “Barely.”

That gives Lancelot pause, and he studies the man a bit more carefully now, the tell-tale signs of his exhaustion coming to the surface now that he is paying attention. They are smoothed, but not quite erased by that mild blessing the Hidden has bestowed on the knight.

“Why?” he asks, forcing down the foreboding feeling.

“Nightmares,” he shrugs, as if it is nothing, even though a chill runs down Lancelot’s spine as he first wonders what could scare Gawain like that, and then he feels sick when the answer springs to his mind, as ugly of truth as it ever gets.

“Me?..” he breathes out in a small voice, shoulders stiffening, but the knight shakes his head, palms sliding up his wrists and then lifting to his face.

“No. No, not you. I—” he swallows and gives him a wry, helpless grin, barely an uptick to his lips, “—I ended up looking at you to forget about them.”

Taken aback, Lancelot blinks once, twice, and then draws a shaky inhale. They are so close right now, he can feel the other’s breath ghost over his lips, but neither of them is making a move to close the distance. It’s too fragile, that truce recovering its shape between them as they linger, simply staring at each other.

Then Gawain slowly, carefully, brushes the tips of their noses, tilts his head to press their lips for a brief, chaste kiss, and leans back.

“You can kick my ass in training tomorrow as revenge,” he chuckles, low and earnest, wraps the palms around Lancelot’s face a bit tighter, and then drops them back to his hands. “How does that sound?”

“Good,” he replies, forcing it out with far more effort than these words should take, and then curses his own weakness, when his stomach leaps at the grin Gawain gives him.

“Do you forgive me then?”

Overwhelmed by his conflicting feelings as much as he is by their proximity, Lancelot nods — and then, when Gawain’s smile grows, he steps back, before it makes him even act even more foolish. 

But before he can escape and head to the stables for some much-needed time with Goliath, the knight’s fingers tighten, lingering on his wrist. They stay gentle enough that it doesn’t even startle him.

“Will you still come tonight?” he asks, barely audible. It sounds like an honest question and not the one he has already planned the answer for.

Lancelot stops on the threshold. Bounces on his heels, weighing the warmth on his wrist and the chill of his resentment.

“Yes,” he says, not turning around, then tugs his hand free and leaves.

_~_

A quiet, but firm knock on the door brings Lancelot out of his thoughts. 

At the creak of the hinges, his eyes dart up at once as he hunches over protectively. But when he sees who it is, he breathes out in relief, and, after a short hesitation, lowers his hands to let the pile of fabric scraps he’s been clutching to his chest spill on the floor.

“Don’t worry, everyone is dining — except for us,” Gawain remarks in an even voice, as he leans on the doorpost, crossing his arms. “Something wrong?”

“No—I just thought I still had some time,” Lancelot sighs, lowering his eyes. “Sorry—I’ll be done in a moment.”

“There’s no rush. What is it that managed to keep you away from cheese?” Gawain wonders with a slight smirk, before he pushes off the wall, closes the door and steps nearer to look at the fabric scraps.

Hands freezing where he’s been shuffling the drawings, Lancelot frowns. “Is it wrong that I like it?”

“Gods, no,” the knight chuckles, shaking his head. “It’s… sweet, actually.”

When his frown deepens at the epithet, Gawain pauses and then coughs. “So — what’s the issue?”

“I thought I figured out the right angle,” Lancelot mutters under his breath, his entire body locking in one tense line at the knight’s proximity to his zealously guarded secrets. With a significant effort, he forces his hands to move slower as he looks through the drawings again.

Crouching on the floor next to him, Gawain tilts his head, eyes following the harsh, angular lines of the sketch — the slight variations of the same thing, at least five of them crowded together on a single scrap. “And you didn’t?”

“No,” he replies mournfully. “That’s why I was late.”

“You really don’t know how to back down, do you?” the knight wonders aloud.

With a soft huff, Lancelot narrows his eyes. “Why do I need to know how to do it?”

Their eyes meet, and after a moment, Gawain shakes his head. “No reason.” Lowering his gaze again, he hums, picking up one of the parchments, a half-finished Medusa sketch on it. “It’s good.”

“No, it is rubbish,” frowns Lancelot, hurrying to find the right one and hide the rest away, but ends up just scattering the parchments and the scraps of fabric all over the floor again. He is just a bit too flustered to focus, his thoughts deviating from their trajectory, drawn in by the warmth radiating from the knight’s side.

“It’s not,” he mutters softly, reaching out to brush their fingers together, and then falls silent.

In the corner of his eye, he sees Gawain frown, as his eyes run along the lines of letters behind the charcoal strokes. 

“Are those from the Bible?”

Freezing, he looks up slowly to find the knight still inspecting the drawing and a grip of panic on his throat seizes up a bit. “Yes?.. I didn’t have anything else.”

There is a short, heavy pause, filled with shifting shadows from the candle’s flickering flame.

“You tore the holy book apart to draw?”

He tries to keep his voice even, but Lancelot knows that thick, heavy tone, hears it, restrained as it is, all but boiling in the knight’s throat.

“I had torn it before,” he corrects, and then rubs at his eyes with the back of his hand, even though they are dry. “Didn’t want to waste the parchment.”

He startles when a warm hand finds his own, wraps around, cradling his wrists; but then he lets his shoulder sag. It’s a fortifying touch—the one that smothers the worry lining his skin from inside with every slow stroke.

“Lots of ghosts in that head of yours,” Gawain mutters softly, as he raises one hand to brush a stray curl off Lancelot’s forehead. Then he glances down at the drawings laying silent and grave on the floor, the unspoken confessions, the accusations not screamed, words that never got a chance to spill. “Does this make it better?”

Not trusting his voice, Lancelot nods, watching him with wary eyes as the knight studies the sketches for a moment longer, and then looks back at him, the piercing, soft jade knife of these eyes slicing his lungs open.

“What troubles you?” Gawain asks, cradling his cheek in a warm palm.

“You know what,” he mutters, his own voice shattering and echoing strangely as if he is listening to it from afar. “I want something I shouldn’t.”

“What is it that you shouldn’t want?” Gawain asks, eyes shining with gracious warmth that tells Lancelot he already knows the answer and is just nudging him towards it with a benevolent, but insistent guiding touch of his voice.

Will Gawain devour him if he can’t answer that riddle? 

More amused than disturbed at the thought, Lancelot scoffs, leaning back and stretching one leg out, swaying the knee of the other in jerky circles. It is all the defiant nonchalance he can muster at the moment, the insistent hum between his hips growing stronger.

“What, are you going to give it to me?” he challenges, raising his chin as he throws the thin veil of his feigned courage between them. If it was a tangible fabric, it would have been red, as crimson red as the rag to anger the bull.

 _Are you going to give it to me as I want it, not you_ , he doesn’t say, but it seems Gawain hears, anyway. As it so often happens in their clashes, his assault shatters when it collides with the knight’s impassive patience. 

“Depends. Did you draw any the night before?”

Distracted by the hum that is steadily crawling up to spread over his solar plexus, Lancelot nods and then curses inwardly, but it is too late.

“Will you show me?” Gawain wonders, tilting his head, which hardly does anything to cool Lancelot’s burning cheeks. 

“No,” he snaps, and then, remembering what exactly is drawn there, shakes his head for emphasis. “I won’t show them on pain of death.”

“You do realise it’s an answer in itself, right?” Gawain says, trying to restrain the smile, but finally losing and huffing out a peal of laughter. “I think I got the gist, anyway.”

With a warm hand on his neck, Lancelot barely has time to look up before he is drawn into an embrace, warm mouth finding his, his surprised gasp swallowed and melted into a moan. It is deeper this time, slower—leaves him breathless and eager for it to be faster.

“Did I guess that right?” Gawain murmurs, when they break apart, his palm still lingering on Lancelot’s neck.

“Something like that,” he admits cautiously, fingers still clenched tight on the other’s forearm — then he remembers himself and tries to draw away.

The knight’s eyebrows raise, and again he barely restrains a smile, as his hand covers Lancelot’s before it can withdraw. “Want more, then?”

Swallowing, Lancelot tosses his head back, but there is no hope for him to appear unfazed, all of his masks shattering like porcelain under the sharp weight of this stare. He gives the smallest nod, already curling upon himself in anticipation of lightning striking him down or something equally appropriate for greedy sinners like him.

But all that happens is a warm hand wrapping around his neck tighter, drawing him closer, guiding him under those dark waters again, where he fumbles, breathless and blind, so eager to drown. It might as well have been lightning for the way it feels, a jolt through his spine and the tingling spreading in its wake, as Gawain leans in, mouth sliding over his neck.

“More,” Lancelot breathes out against his lips, reeling from the caress as if he is in a fight, heart beating faster even though he is still curled up on the floor, has barely moved at all.

Gawain obliges without a word, and it is a thrill that runs through his entire body, wrings him dry and feverish with how helpless and wanting he feels. The knight pushes him backwards — or rather, he lets them fall to the floor together, and Lancelot is only clinging closer.

The drawings rustle under and around as the floor meets the curve of his back, and he arches away for a moment, but it only brings them closer together; it is immediately too much — not enough — he doesn’t know what to do with all of his limbs.

The vein on his neck pulsing so fast he can see Gawain’s eyes get drawn to it, before the warm lips brush against the hollow of his throat.

Arching up, he slips with one hand on the parchment, and he is trembling by now, like a bowstring that has just loosened an arrow. His aim is all shot, worse than that, he doesn’t quite understand where is up and where is down, the room keeps spinning, as he slowly lets himself be held down as Gawain pulls himself on top of him. 

It’s nothing like a fight, Lancelot realises, it’s just — an embrace, but his stomach swoops in a way that it never does when he is being touched otherwise. He wonders, distantly, if it is Gawain, or it is just that there is a conduit to all his loneliness and longing, someone who can take it away in silence, scoop some of that dark water into their warm palms out of the skeleton ship of his body and pour it out where it can’t touch him.

When Gawain kisses him, it’s as sweet as before, not anywhere near harsh enough to make him scared. It still doesn’t feel wrong in the slightest, and with a quiet surprised noise, he tilts his head to tentatively kiss the man back. 

The room seems flooded with light, and slowly it seeps through the cracks in Lancelot’s dark head until he is drowning in it, gasping as he tries to break the surface but then allows himself to sink back down again. There is a fabric stretched thin between them that makes it alright, somehow, wraps him as a comforting reminder that he is covered, protected.

He expects some words, something filthy and confident, but Gawain seems content to just kiss his neck, again, and then the tender skin in the dip where collar bones meet, and then Lancelot makes a soft, distressed click in his throat, trying to pull away. The trajectory deviates at that, but the steady, warm flow of caresses doesn’t stop. 

It is not enough to warrant him doing really anything but pressing his mouth in a thin line, trembling and going stiff under the wandering hand smoothing down his side. It slows down then but doesn’t withdraw, a thumb brushing over his ribs through the thin fabric of his shirt.

Sliding a knee between his legs, Gawain presses closer, teeth grazing over his neck. It sends Lancelot arching into the touch, one hand flying to the knight’s shoulder and the other still scrambling for purchase on the floor, ruffling the drawings, a soft rustle of them covering his gasp.

The next one it doesn’t drown out quite so well, and then he doesn’t spare much thought to it, attention captured by the way his body comes alive under the touch.

It’s strangely enticing, short bursts of pulse erupting in odd places, in his fingertips, under his ribs, following in the wake of Gawain’s lips. It is chaste, like this, almost reverent in the way there is a veil of thin fabric between them, softening and concealing the guilt and shame Lancelot would have felt otherwise.

He feels a bit like an ivory statue, adored by a king, the slow, firm kisses half a caress, half an offering. With every single one, the hum of life in him grows stronger.

Pygmalion praises his best creation, his Galatea — and she is made real by it. 

He feels holy — and good.

Throwing his head back, he swallows thickly, throat jerking against Gawain’s lips, and breathes out in stuttering exhale when they brush next to his mouth. He tries to turn his face away and the knight lets him; he keeps trailing the kisses down his neck, a feather-light touch, a firmer press, a graze of teeth. They are different, but all follow some strange pattern Gawain seems to have under control, and Lancelot follows it out of instinct, leans in to give better access to his collarbones.

It is the most tender, most generous praise, to feel those lips on his bones, to feel their softness connect with the hardest parts of him. Just when the rush starts to fade, Gawain flips the feeling around, teeth grazing against skin, and the flutter in his stomach turns so violent, it tears a strained gasp out of his throat.

Canting his hips up, Lancelot bites his lip and hides his face in the crook of Gawain’s neck, but doesn’t stop, moving in stuttering, shy up and downs, an undulating pattern of lust getting stronger with every second that the other man does not draw away. In the corner of his eye, Lancelot sees charcoal smudges run up both their elbows; then he closes his eyes, focusing on the what is unfurling, unseen, between them.

He is not innocent in this anymore — has spent more than one night feeding the restless beast in him the fragments of the memories about the knight. Memories of his wrists, the gentle curve of the bone and the way the skin stretches over it; of the dip on his lower back he sees when Gawain tugs his shirt off for something so innocent, it should feel wrong to recall it then, but it never truly does. His rough and warm voice, like wool keeping the chill away from his skin; his eyes—

—his stomach tightens again, almost painfully this time, and he makes a desperate, greedy noise in his throat, opens his mouth, trying to get more air in. He is getting drunk on that simple, wonderful, heady scent that tickles his nose, driving him nearly mad as he craves another inhale of it before he even lets go of the first one.

The warm, heavy weight resting against his lower stomach does not feel like a threat right now — it is so solid and unmoving that it becomes a reassurance. He still shies away from directly shifting against it — but then Gawain tilts his hips, just the slightest, just to put it in his way, and it’s too good to ignore.

He is wrapped around the knight like a vice: one leg slung over his back, the other along his hip, tilting his own to rub against him, trying to take in as much warmth and touch as he can. It is like he is a thief that has gotten into the dragon lair, heaping his arms high with gold, slipping on it, diving into it, pressing the coins to his lips.

Opening his mouth, Lancelot presses it against the tender skin of the knight’s throat, his eyelashes fluttering at the overwhelmingly intense scent flooding his head. He tries to return some of that solemn, patient praise but keeps slipping, biting and sucking, too wolfish and frantic to care as he should. It doesn’t feel like he is doing anything wrong, as Gawain lowers his head, silent and warm, breathes a bit heavier in his neck.

The yearning sting grows stronger, makes his thighs twitch and tighten as he chases the feeling, pressing into Gawain with his entire body for a moment, then drawing back, always at least half-way still connected. He feels like the sea, waves rolling over the stone, and now he knows why they never tire of that.

It is the best feeling he has ever felt. The only thing that this body ever gave him that does not feel like a curse, but a blessing.

The burn keeps building up, a ripple over his muscles, until they lock, drag him up, to meet Gawain in earnest. He is keen where the other is unflustered — but before he can feel ashamed about it, the knight moves against him, pressing him into the ground, and then he does it again. Every time, it’s like a flint meeting steel, until on another thrust it strikes the spark.

It explodes, sharp and focused, then spreads, echoes and reflects from his hip bones, ricochets and overlaps, soothing and warming. It is a demanding tug right under his navel, a throb trapped between their bodies, and a tingle in his lower back, so many feelings at once rising and shifting within him.

On the outside, it’s just a single, punched out inhale from him, as Lancelot shuts his eyes for a moment. Still, even under his eyelids, the darkness is exploding, bright white, and some vibrant, unnameable colours flashing as he exhales and presses closer, feeling the wave flow away from under him. It drains him of the energy, leaving the ringing, sated noise behind and small, delicious shivers running down his spine.

When Gawain says something, Lancelot only notices it by the rumble of the throat under his cheek, and looks up, blinking in a daze, trying to focus his eyes on the blurry ochre and charcoal shapes to make out the features. With a bit of effort, it sharpens into Gawain repeating the question, but he still can’t make out the words.

His tongue does not obey him, either, as heavy as lead, and he helplessly waits until the noise dies down and he finds his bearings. When it seems like he will finally be able to understand the question, Lancelot makes a soft, pitiful questioning noise in his throat, growing anxious and squirming despite the warmth still enveloping him.

There is a small, genuine smile on Gawain’s face as he studies him for a moment, and then lifts a hand to brush his hair away.

“It’s alright,” he mutters, leaning down to kiss the tender skin under the corner of his eye. “Can you understand what I say now?”

Lancelot nods because no one said anything about talking back. It makes the knight’s lips twitch in another brief, wry smile, as he leans down, hovers for a moment, thumb brushing over his bottom lip in a silent question, and then when Lancelot breathes out a soft _yes,_ presses a kiss into his mouth.

It feels as if he is being fed nectar, viscous and golden as it slips past his lips and flows down his throat. But it is just the scent and the warmth and the taste of Gawain, overwhelming and safe.

With a soft, stuttered inhale, they break apart, but stay close, wrapped in each other. Tilting his head, Lancelot watches from under half-closed eyelids how the candlelight reflects from the unruly amber strands. The solid weight aligned with the crease of his thigh is still there, and Gawain pauses for a moment, before breathing out a soft:

“Do you mind?”

Lancelot is not sure what he is asking about, but he nods anyway because he does not think there is anything he would mind right now. But when the knight reaches down to pluck the lacing apart, he makes a soft, distressed sound in his throat, quickly discovering that there is at least one thing that still scares him even in this floating, mellow state.

“Don’t worry,” Gawain murmurs in his ear, as he nuzzles in his neck gently. “I am not going to take you right now. Just need—need to take the edge off.”

With one hand moving in short, sharp tugs — Lancelot is startled by how violent it looks, he never thought it’s — so rough, it looks rough — and the other planted next to his head, Gawain is finally losing that stoicism, the rigid line of his body melting into something frantic and warmer. 

Darting his eyes down again, Lancelot swallows thickly. The sight is both vulnerable and intimidating, a contradiction that makes him pause. It is enthralling, this primal, rough display, but he is not sure what to do with it. Gawain seems to be doing quite well without any need for his fumbling attempts; and so, he averts his eyes.

“You can look,” the knight utters, a breathless edge to his voice that he has not heard before and it both makes him flush and bristle. Glancing down, he exhales sharply and immediately looks away. He is not sure how he has managed to provoke this reaction, but then Gawain leans down to suck a firm kiss into his neck, just under the hinge of his jaw. His hand is even rougher now, faster, as he mouths at the skin and then pulls away.

His cheeks are painted with faint red and Lancelot is captivated by it enough to abandon his hesitation, and reach out, entranced, to run his fingers over the soft line of his slightly open mouth. Eyes narrowing for a moment, Gawain catches his fingertips with his lips, runs his tongue in between them and then lets go of them.

When the knight throws his head back, the angular outline of his throat is glistening with faint sheen of sweat. It is not enough for it to fall, but enough to send a sharp scent that Lancelot inhales, chokes on, but then inhales again, because it is potent, but also strangely appealing. It is like it chafes on his tongue but also gets him a bit high.

With a low, strained inhale, Gawain tenses for a moment, shoulders rolling before he falls forward over Lancelot, making him jerk in surprise. Behind the curtain of reddish tresses, he cannot see the knight’s face and only realises what is it when he is awash with a new, unfamiliar scent that makes him widen his eyes and take a sharp inhale.

It is—salt, and musk, like—spices on the knife’s edge; he has only ever caught the stale smell like that before, but now it is fresh and overwhelming, and his eyes jump down again.

It drips on his stomach, on the thin strip of pale skin where the shirt has ridden up, and he starts again, reaches down to shield himself — before Gawain runs his hand over it, spreading some of the silky, coagulating fluid over his skin, but taking most of it away on his knuckles. 

“Want a taste?” he asks, tilting his head with a genuine, wry smirk that makes Lancelot’s stomach tighten, and he inhales sharply, but shakes his head. He is not sure he will be able to stop if Gawain does that.

The fact that Gawain doesn’t look like he wants to stop is making his head spin.

“Others,” Lancelot murmurs with effort, his throat not working properly. “Others are coming back.”

Looking up, the knight cocks his head to the side, but doesn’t move otherwise. “Are they?”

Nodding once, Lancelot gently pushes him to dislodge the weight pinning him to the ground, and carefully props himself on his elbows. It feels as if the world has somehow shifted around him as if his body has changed, grown heavier and more grounded, not torn apart in a dozen different directions at once. He needs to get used to this shift in his centre of gravity.

“Go,” he manages to force out, and for some reason, it hurts him more than a punch to the chest would. “Before they see.”

The knight pauses wiping his hand on a piece of cloth that Lancelot has scrounged in case he needs to mend his clothes. “You’re not coming with me?”

“No.”

He must look morose enough that Gawain is silent as he raises from his knees, then roughly tucks himself in and laces the trousers up again.

“It’s not going to stay secret for much longer,” he tells him in a low voice, and it sounds so grave, almost like a warning, that Lancelot tenses and flinches.

“One more night,” he utters, soft as a plea, and Gawain nods, before he pushes the door open, takes a careful glance around and then disappears in the hallway, the door closing with the quietest thud behind him that rings as loud as a church bell in Lancelot’s head.

The room is suddenly so much emptier than it has even been before.

He is still trying to figure out why left and right seem to switch places every time he turns his head, leaping like spooked hares, but then the sound of the commotion makes him glance at the door. The reality crawls back in, cold and unsettling. It is in the outline of his empty, neat bed, in the dying candle on his windowsill.

The faint traces of the moist on his stomach have already dried; but they wouldn’t be seen by anyone, anyway. In a sense, they are irritating, feel like a claim he has not asked for, doesn’t want to be intoxicated by — but he still presses a hand over them, trying to calm down the raging hunger that tries to claw its way out. 

There are too many contradictions for him to process. The turmoil in his head is unravelling, and it is violent, unsated. The mere idea of trying to fall asleep here, tossing and turning the entire night, biting into the pillow to stop himself from screaming in frustration makes Lancelot clench his jaw tight and close his eyes, exhaling forcefully through the nose.

Out of habit, he tries to recall the words of the prayers, but they taste sour and stale. Have been like that for months, as if without the lies nurturing them, even the truth has wilted. But now, it is even worse, it is licking dust off the mummified relics. It is unbearable after he knows what Gawain’s mouth tastes like, sweet and sharp like wildflowers.

He is still thrumming with this ruthless need. No amount of training or drawing right now would take it away.

He needs more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you, Valerin, for catching the typos <3


	4. if I stop now call me a quitter

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Gawain's POV on the events of the previous chapters.

It starts as many things do — with a knock to the door.

“What is it?” Gawain calls out, eyes still fixed on the map as he massages his temple with two fingers. Far more irritation edges his voice than the heedless messenger really deserves to hear. He is usually better at preventing anyone from witnessing his frayed nerves, but the problems have been biting at his heels like rabid wolves over the last week. 

The reason for his frustration right now is that he is trying to decide whether he will lose twenty warriors and ten civilians or the other way around. It is not a fun kind of a riddle.

With a soft rustle of cloth, the young cliffwalker steps in, bowing his head in that solemn way his folk has. The short cape slung over his shoulder is, of course, also immaculately folded and pinned. “A missive, my lord.”

Frowning, Gawain looks up from the map. It still startles him a bit when other Fey call him that, even though they have all the reasons, seeing as they currently dwell in his castle. Thankfully, it is mostly moonwings and cliffwalkers who do that, the most ceremonious ones of all the tribes.

When Gawain glances down at the rolled-up letter he is being handed, a thin dark crimson ribbon wrapped around it, his stomach drops at the sharp scent of more bad news wafting off its pristine shape. 

With one last look at the map, he decides to think about the mission again in a couple of hours. He knows he is delaying the inevitable, but he can’t help considering such unfortunate odds for slightly longer. 

Swallowing down the prayer generously mixed with blasphemy, Gawain breaks the red wax seal. It bears his family crest, and the mere sight of it is enough to bring sour taste to his mouth. 

The first line is a greeting, a flowery one — as pretty and poisonous as foxglove, and the rest he doesn’t have the time to read because there is another knock on the door. It swings open before he can answer, and another messenger steps in, a young tusk now. 

He is nearly bumping shoulders with the first one in the narrow space between two bookshelves framing the entrance, and Gawain pauses, taking in his flustered blushing face and how he is nearly bent in half as he tries to catch his breath. The lad must have run all the way from the hall on the other side of the castle, the one where the council usually gathers.

Perhaps he should move his study closer. On second thought, the council might see it as an encouragement they definitely do not need.

“Gawain, the council is looking for you, they say it’s urgent!” the tusk breathes out in one go and gulps for air like a man drowning. 

No, definitely not moving.

Gawain glances down at the letter that has rolled back on itself, hiding the rest of the words. Then at the map. His face must reflect a complex play of emotions because the messenger winces apologetically as he clings to the doorframe. 

“They did say that twice?..” he says, a slight frown creasing his forehead.

“I am coming,” Gawain replies evenly, and, dismissing the messengers with a terse nod, puts the map back into the chest. There are still scraps of birch bark on which he drew the drafts of the plan, but those are all wrong, anyway.

With a soft click, he turns the key and then hangs it back on the leather drawstring around his neck. It feels as if it weighs more than before, but then it seems to grow a tad heavier with every passing day.

When he leaves the room, the tusk boy trails after him, apparently having decided that this is the best entertainment he can find in the entire castle at the moment. Casting him a sideways glance, Gawain shakes his head but doesn’t say anything. 

As he walks down the hallways and galleries, curiosity gets the best of him, and he unrolls the probably damning scrap of parchment again. The letters keep jumbling, jostled by the wide stride of his steps, but he wades through the greetings. A letter from King Lot of Orkney… the string of titles far longer than his patience for it... To Gwalchmei ap Gwyar — yes, that’s him, not that anyone sane calls him that — 

Unfortunately, with people greeting him on the way, forcing him to look up every other moment, he doesn’t get far. The convoluted phrasing of the letter does not help in the slightest. The council hall is rapidly approaching, a looming presence that makes the growing unease in his gut all the sharper.

Just as the tusk boy pushes the heavy oak doors open, Gawain stops dead in his tracks — so abruptly that Percival, who has been passing by, nearly bumps into him. Eyes firmly on the letter, he doesn’t even notice, completely engrossed in the message he has finally deciphered.

“He asks for  _ what.” _

Deciphered, not believed to actually be written in ink. However, when he takes a second look, the single damning word is still there.

“Old bastard,” Gawain breathes out with so much hatred it is approaching amusement. Then he looks up to see the entire council gathered around the long wooden table, watching him with varying degrees of curiosity. 

“Ah,” the cliffwalker chief chuckles, raising his eyes from the floor he has been inspecting with tender curiosity one usually reserves for little children. Probably talking to the stones again, checking the building for the structural damage as he usually does, when feeling slightly lost in the lively conversation the faun and the tusk chiefs strike. “I take it you have received a reply from King Lot.”

“Indeed,” Gawain murmurs, then remembers himself and looks up, before finally taking a step inside the hall, and shutting the door behind him, cutting off both boys from listening in. “Albin,”—he nods at the moonwing—“Aldus,”—at the tusk— “Weller,”—at the cliffwalker—“Emer,”—the snake woman,”—“Cora”.

To Arthur, he simply gives a wry smile, because they have already met this morning, and exchanging second greetings with the man who you regularly try to kill under the pretence of training is a bit too much. The feeling is mutual, at least. Working together does that to people.

“You wanted to see me — has something happened?”

“It can wait — what does King Lot say?” Cora demands, and he sucks a sharp breath in, trying to formulate it without saying anything he will regret later.

Salvation comes in the form of Arthur, which is an alarmingly frequent occasion in Gawain’s life.

“Shan’t we wait for Kaze to return before we discuss it?” the man wonders, as he perches on the edge of the table.

“Yeva says she will only be here in two days, we can’t wait.” The faun huffs, crossing her arms and tilting her head, the bells on her antlers ringing softly. It was her idea, actually, because with their silent feet, her folk kept scaring the living daylights out of everyone. “What’s in the letter, Gawain?”

_ My father has gone insane, and now we are doomed,  _ he thinks.

“A somewhat delicate condition for the success of our negotiations,” he replies, leaning his elbows on the carved back of a heavy upholstered chair, a letter clutched loosely in his hand.

“Meaning?” she frowns, taking her seat across the table from him.

It takes a moment for him to even out his breathing and erase any lingering traces of panic from his face. “He will only agree to the alliance if I marry and produce an heir. Within a year.”

The silence stretches as the elders digest the information, their faces quickly turning from stunned to thoughtful.

Thick as thieves, Cora and Emer exchange quick glances, and then the faun chief frowns, biting on her lip as she presses a fist to her mouth, while the snakewoman glances to the side. Albin is watching him without blinking, that with his owlish eyes, is really quite unsettling. Despite an amicable, calm expression on his angular, slightly grey face, Weller is obviously no longer listening to the stones, judging from the stiff line of his shoulders. The most laid back out of all of them, Aldus, shaking his impressive, curved horns, just reaches across the table to pour some watered wine into his goblet.

Finally, rapping her fingers on the table, Cora voices what is obviously on everyone else’s mind.

“Are you going to do that?”

“Of course.”

There is a collective exhale that both amuses and offends him a bit. Glancing down at the table, he considers pouring some wine for himself as well. As he picks up the jug, there is a soft rustle of fabric, and when he looks up, Arthur is looking at him with worried eyes.

“What about your vow?..” he asks carefully, his fingers lingering on Gawain’s wrist.

Prying it carefully out to fetch the goblet, Gawain leans back and shrugs with one shoulder. “If it is all it takes to bring peace, then it is a small price.” Taking a small sip, he savours the sour taste for a moment. “Besides, I technically died, which probably gives me a bit of a wiggle room.”

It is tempting to hide behind another sip, but he schools his face into an impassive look and forces himself to meet their eyes. While intercepting the jug from him, Cora briefly squeezes his hand, a fleeting expression of encouragement and gratitude he acknowledges with a slight nod. 

Then he takes a small sip and looks around, studying the other elders, who have fallen into their scheming mood, eyes gleaming a bit brighter and speculative looks written clearly on their faces.

“Does he suggest anyone?” 

“He does,” Gawain nods, and then pauses, choosing the words, but in the end going with a blunt answer. “But I’d rather fall on my sword than marry that person.”

Plucking a cranberry from a plate with the tips of his talons, Albin cocks an eyebrow in such a pointed way it feels as if he has whipped a dagger out. “Perhaps you can be a bit more lenient when such an important pact is at stake.” 

With a soft, tactful cough, Gawain glances to the side and then back at them. 

“It is Lady Helizabel,” he says.

There is a short, pregnant pause. 

“Understandable then,” the moonwing nods, which is a surprise, but a welcome one. Judging from the raised brows and toothy grins of other council members, Gawain is not the only one taken aback by the sudden acquiescence, and Albin bristles a bit. “What? We might believe the needs of the folk are more important than personal feelings, but that bitch…”

There is a wave of chuckles and hoots, as the man realises he let his tongue slip, a faint pink tint appears on his pale high cheekbones. Thankfully, Gawain does not need to intervene before an innocent taunt can offend the chief. After the first month, other Fey learnt that mocking moonwings is just not worth it — they are notorious for holding grudges in a silent way that makes ones go insane, without being able to put their finger on the reason.

Instead, the well-known stories about Lady Helizabel are brought up, worn out by many sharp tongues, one more unflattering than the other.

“I think we can all agree that she is no friend of Fey,” Emer notes in her lilting, slightly sibilant accent, and the others all nod in agreement. Even before the Red Brothers appeared in Britain, Lady Helizabel was known for her casual discrimination of all Fey who happened to trade or practice their craft in her lands. However concealed by sweet words and obscure customs, the unfair treatment was enough to embitter even the most patient tribes.

“I am certain I can persuade them for a person of our choice,” Gawain remarks, trying to recall which blackmail material he might still have that would grant him that freedom. “My… father is perfectly aware of my stance on the matter in general and on Lady Helizabel in particular. That suggestion was just a deliberate taunt.”

“Are you sure?” Snatching the letter out of his hand with his nimble fingers of a thief, Arthur skims the lines, eyebrows crawling up to his hairline. At some point, he stops, then breathes out a soft: “Gods, that’s trenchant.”

Gawain nods and hums softly. “That’s Agravaine.”

“Your reputation as a hardened and unrepentant sinner… frivolous attachments…”

“Let me see,” Cora demands with an unforgivable amount of glee in her voice and the letter exchanges hands. Her brows follow the same path as Arthur’s, until she tries to stifle a giggle by pressing a hand to her mouth, but fails. To cover her slip up she pushes the letter into Emer’s outstretched palm, and before long, all of the elders become privy to the wonders of moral critique that came from under his brother’s quill.

Too bad he did not kill the bugger in that hunt, it was a perfect opportunity, no one would have ever known, Gawain thinks as he studies his nails intently.

“Well,” Arthur says. “That explains a thing or two.”

Eyebrows are raised, and at least two elders shake their heads, which he carefully does not react to, because the situation is delicate enough that he does not need to bring any of his personal mess into it. He does not have any desire to open that particular can of worms at all, to be honest, no matter what the circumstances are, but least of all in public.

“It does look as if they do not truly care about the candidate, at least,” Cora comes to his rescue, and he replies with a nod, which is both gratitude and confirmation. “Who do you have in mind? Oh—Ragnell!”

He hums noncommittally, finally pulling the chair out to sit down. Digging his nails into his thigh to remind himself not to grow frustrated with what he knows will follow is easier that way.

“Why not Ysabel?” Emer counters with a faint frown, and Aldus blows a raspberry, which earns him a narrowed gaze that does not bode well. However, the man is rumoured to be immune to a fair share of poisons and meets the withering glare with no trepidation. Leaning back, he smirks, folding his arms. 

“If anyone should take that place, it’s Orguelleuse.”

Yep, here they go. As the moonwing joins in with a candidate of his own and the elders begin to argue in earnest, Gawain is quiet. Even inwardly — but it is a seething, dark quiet. It seems just because he agreed to a marriage out of political necessity, they immediately assumed he also has no choice in finer details, such as  _ who he is to spend his life with. _

He does not take vows lightly. It is bad enough that he is to break the one he has made to himself — but to end up eventually breaking another, one made to a woman who will be tied to him, dependent on him… Worse than that—to her—their, gods, their—children. 

Perhaps, the Hidden are trying to tell him something, but for once in his life, he does not want to listen. Perhaps, he thinks bitterly, bringing a goblet to his lips, they just find some sick amusement in forcing him to retrace the steps of his father.

Taking another sip of wine, Gawain keeps his eyes trained on the intricate swirls of the engraving on the candelabrum standing in front of him. The council argues. The shovel scrapes over the cobblestones in the yard. There is a cling of steel, too — training, someone’s cheerful curses following every loud clash of blades, met with dead silence of the opponent.

He wonders, distantly, if Lancelot has managed to master that routine she was working on last week, then pulls himself together and forces his mind back on track.

The voices wash over him, fragments of phrases swirling like murky water in the indents in the sand on a stormy day. Keep your enemies close — do Orkneys themselves count? They most definitely do — when Weller glances at him a bit guiltily, he just waves, showing that no offence is taken on behalf of his clan. Need a woman to fit his character—sate his appetites, seriously, Cora? Nimue would have been right if she was not, you know, dead — he looks up at that, fixes the one who said this outrageous nonsense with a heavy glare that makes the man wither like a roadside weed in winter.

Gawain hears them say all of these things, and they fill his head, tangling with his own thoughts. Some are from now, some are from the other time completely. He can feel them spinning, accelerating, faster and faster, weaving together like water draining in the clepsydra, like gears turning, faster—

—then, it clicks.

“Lancelot.”

The council falls so quiet, he can hear the old roof creak over their heads and the shovel scrape over the cobblestones of the yard below. A loud thud followed by silence signifies that the routine has been mastered and successfully applied.

As always, Cora recovers first, clearing her throat awkwardly. “Apologies—did you say?..”

“Yes,” he confirms with a solemn nod.

“Lancelot?”

“Lancelot.”

A short pause follows.

“You can’t be serious.”

_ Oh, but I am,  _ Gawain thinks, filled with malicious glee at their long faces. Tilting his head, he raps his fingers on the armrest, then slowly roves his eyes over the council as they stare back, plain disbelief written over their faces.

”Surely, you can see the advantages of such a match,” his tongue stumbles over the word but recovers quickly, “even if it is the one you would find unconventional.”

”Unconventional,” the moonwing repeats with a faint frown as if the word is a foreign fruit he is not quite sure he likes the taste of. 

”Mad, you mean,” the tusk chimes in, looking at him from under the shade of his horns with an almost amused expression that Gawain mirrors with a thin smile.

“I would be careful with your choice of words, esteemed Aldus. It is my future wife you’re talking about.”

Raising his eyebrows in surprise, the man chuckles and shakes his head. At least he does not look as if he is intent on arguing further, unlike the other elders.

”Gawain, this _ is _ madness,” Cora huffs, crossing her arms, and Emer nods emphatically.

_ And the rest of it isn’t, _ he thinks. She seems so confident she can dissuade him that Gawain, who would have usually listened to her advice, digs his heels in.

“I don’t think so,” he argues calmly. “Lancelot is an excellent warrior, whose loyalty, now mostly born out of lack of choice, will be strengthened if we are to be bound in — marriage. She is also literate, more so, speaks several languages. Finally, she is an innocent, comely and healthy woman.”

The words seem to make the first dent in their defences. The women falter, exchanging looks again, while Albin narrows his eyes and leans back, stroking the fine feathers on his chin. In the meantime, Weller is quiet, tracing the grain of the wood with his fingertips, but he is obviously listening, still.

“Innocent,” Aldus scoffs, and Gawain narrows his eyes just a bit.

“She stood the trial. In the way that matters for the marriage, she is innocent, too. At least, it’s likely, from her beliefs. So, I don’t see the problem.”

“Gawain,” Cora says carefully as if she is explaining it to a child, and he digs his nails into the meat of his thigh. “She is feral and zealous. If you try to claim her hand, she is likely to bite yours off.”

The words leave a bitter taste in his mouth.

“She  _ was  _ that, but since she has rejoined our folk, she is making progress in leaps and bounds,” he says, keeping his voice even while he covertly digs his nails into his forearm. “I am quite sure my family can be swayed to agree. Besides, think about it. It’s a statement against the Church, as well.”

“Wouldn’t it be better to find another Fey?” Emer tries, her voice hesitant. “Or even a Man Blood?..”

The last suggestion is met with scoffs, and though they quickly send the apologetic glances and words to Arthur, the man waves it off with an easy grin. However, despite the contempt on the elders’ faces, there is a speculative gleam in their eyes that suggests that with an appropriate candidate, they would have considered it a better choice. 

Too bad that Gawain would rather chop his arm off then sire children with one of those haughty ladies who would see him as a savage no matter how much he might try to persuade them. And not only him — the children, too. No — he will not put them through the same thing he has gone through. Not if he has any choice. Besides...

“I can never trust man blood nobility. Not in my household. If it puts your minds at ease, I will look into the Fey brides — but I can already tell you it will not change my choice.”

Arthur speaks up then, pinching the bridge of his nose. “But she is not of noble blood, does not have any dowry, or…”

“None of Fey have a dowry at the moment.” Gawain glances briefly to the side, letting the words sink in, like a punch to the gut that silences the murmurs and turns the air heavy and solemn. “And what about parentage… Lancelot might have better lineage than I do, from what Merlin and Yeva say.”

“What do you mean?”

“There are reasons to think she might be the daughter of King Ban and Elaine of Benoic.”

A stunned silence falls, as if they have seriously expected he has just made a jest, and then the clamour rises. Gawain, in turn, with his hands clasped in front of his mouth, just watches the elders as they come to terms with the fact that he just won that fight. When they ask for details, he answers, but otherwise, he lets them argue, exhausting the counter-arguments they have out of inertia more than anything. 

He waits for it to be over, tidal waves crashing over the stone. The water, he thinks, not for the first time, always wears the stone down. But not this time, he repeats, just like he has every time before. Not this one.

The clamour dies when Cora pushes up abruptly and leans over, looming over him. The bells on her antlers do nothing right now to soften the fact that they are still sharp and hard enough to run him through — not that she would, but by the furious twist to her mouth, she probably entertains the idea.

“Why haven’t you said anything earlier?” she demands, her eyes ablaze and cheeks ruddy. 

“I wanted to be sure,” he replies calmly. “Tomorrow I am to get the confirmation from Merlin when he is done studying the archives.”

Another cranberry clutched in his talons, Albin nods, even though a faint look of distaste lingers on his features. “Let’s wait until tomorrow, then. In the meantime, we can compile the list of other possible candidates.”

Forcing his jaw to unclench, Gawain breathes in, then out. The tension grows, as they stare each other down, but then there is a soft rumble to the side that makes them both glance in the direction of it.

“Lancelot might not be royalty, and it will not be easy, but there is a sense in what you say,” Weller says, the first thing he has said since the entire debate has begun. “On behalf of my clan, I approve of your choice.”

His throat closes up briefly, but Gawain manages a grateful smile, bowing his head. The opinion of the calmest, most soft-spoken man in the council has greater weight than one might think at first glance. Even though the others still look doubtful, their expressions are less severe, scowls mellowing out to faint frowns.

“Alright then, that’s decided for now,” Cora sighs, getting up. “As exciting as all this is, we actually wanted to discuss the turnips.”

Of course.

As she wanders to the corner to refill the jug of wine, followed by Emer and Albin, Gawain is left staring down the remaining members of the council. Well, only two of them, since Weller is back to his meditative daze — this time near the window. He must be looking at Lancelot, too, and there is a contemplative but soft expression on his face that makes Gawain wonder what the stones told him about the girl that he does not share.

“You got the bit in your teeth, don’t you?” Arthur says under his breath as he swivels the remains of wine in his goblet, and he hums in confirmation, taking another swallow of wine.

“Would love to see you try,” Aldus huffs, tilting his head, and he might be trying to speak in a whisper, but with his booming voice, it is still clear enough for everyone in the room to hear. “You might be a wolfhound, but the girl is rabid. You will run with your tail tucked between your legs in three days, I bet on that.”

Inwardly, Gawain makes a note to let the man catch him during some of his less decent activities once Lancelot is a bit tamed. The thought stirs the low heat in his gut that catches him off guard, makes him shift slightly in the seat. His fingers tighten a bit around the stem of the goblet.

“Four,” Cora mutters, falling back into her seat with heaps of maps outlining the castle layout in hea arms. She looks dismayed but seems to have given up on her matchmaking plans — at least on the surface. It is unlikely she will sabotage his idea, but she might also not intervene when Emer and Albin try, which they certainly will.

As if he needs their help to fuck this up.

The relief of them yielding makes Gawain sag a bit in his seat, and then he stands up and walks over to the window to open one of the shutters, let some fresh air — they might be in here for a while, judging from the inspired look on Aldus’s face that usually precludes another report on the progress in plant growing spells.

Gawain loves plants, alright? And spells, and food, and seeing his folk healthy. But he also has only slept in fits and starts last night, the vague memories of smoke and scorching, blinding pain plaguing his dreams. 

The unease grew stronger again over the last couple of days, once he tentatively tried to forego the sleeping draughts. It settles now, as he pauses, watching Lancelot lunge into an attack. She is still shying away from every blow out of instinct, forgetting that her armour can take it, and she does not seem to pay much attention to the man who is supposed to cover her back, not even giving him a chance to catch up with her.

It is strange how watching the exact reason for his nightmares makes his mind go quiet. In the corner of his eye, he sees Weller withdrew as the training routine comes to an end. Leaning his forehead against the wall, he allows himself one more moment and then pushes off resolutely to follow the cliffwalker back to the table.

The chair scrapes over the floor as he pulls it out, before turning back to the elders.

“Give me a fortnight.”

“A fortnight? Bold,” Walter hums, sounding mostly impressed and just a tad doubtful, the patterns on his face, like cracks in the stone, scrunching up. 

“You know me,” Gawain grins, a wolfish edge to it. He had to practice it for a full minute in the morning before his face remembered how to do it and the muscles stopped locking up, twisting the grimace into a sneer instead of a roguish smirk. It works again, and that is all that matters.

“Yes, we all know your main weapon is in your trousers,” Aldus snorts, leaning back and folding his hands on his stomach. When Albin throws him a derisive glance, he huffs angrily. “What? Haven’t you heard the rumours?”

“I have, indeed,” the man replies with thinly veiled scorn, his pale lips thinning until they all but disappear. “I just wasn’t going to bring this filth up.” 

“Is that right?” Aldus drawls, bushy eyebrows snapping together. “Just because you are a pompous…”

As it is usual between these two tribes, the tension in the air surges up in a blink, the feathers ruffling on the moonwing’s neck and the tusk bowing his head just like an enraged bull would.

“Sirs!” Gawain calls out, raising his hands as he stands up. “Please. Let us not quarrel — least of all about those rumours.”

“But are they true?” Emer asks, turning her yellow, snake eyes towards him. She looks just like a curious adder, all but tasting the air with a tongue, as she twirls the quill in her slender fingers. 

There is a beat of silence, in which Gawain realises they are all expecting him to actually answer that. Which might be fair, given the context of his current mission, but still grates on his nerves. He is not, exactly, the kind to kiss and tell.

“Yes,” he says, at last.

Albin arches his white, delicate eyebrow. “Every single one?”

“Yes.”

“Even the one with the...” Emer begins after a short pause.

“Would you like me to demonstrate?” he interrupts, tilting his head.

It’s funny, to see those snake pupils dilate just like human ones when their owner is aroused. It’s a short, barely noticeable flare — the woman is too dignified to allow a longer one. The faint blush on her cheeks that follows is from frustration only.

The frustration sizzles out, leaving behind a realisation that it was perhaps slightly harsh. He needs to make it less personal before any grudges are held. Glancing around, Gawain cocks his eyebrow. “Any of you?”

It is still angry, still this undertone in his voice that hints at feral smiles, bloodied teeth and bruised knuckles. He has learnt to keep it in check, mostly, over the last months, and it’s been a while since he let it shine through in this room. It is all the more startling for them. For a short moment, the elders are silent as they study him. 

“No,” Arthur says finally. “We believe you will handle the situation.”

_ ~ an hour full of plans about turnips later ~ _

Pushing the doors of the hall open and greedily sucking in the air of freedom, Gawain catches the sight of a small figure straightening rapidly in an utterly inconspicuous way.

“Boy,” he breathes out with a fond sigh. “Why do I see you here.”

“Because I am a knight now, but you still won’t allow me to any meetings,” Percival retorts immediately, a worn-out argument, and then tucks in as an afterthought, “Sir.”

Shooting him a dark glare, Gawain shakes his head. It is unbelievable how the boy manages to look both insufferably cheeky and blissfully innocent at the same time, as he meets his gaze and raises his tiny chin stubbornly.

The resemblance to what he must have looked like at that age, from his mother’s stories, is uncanny. It is also something people remark on in hushed voices — and not for the first time, Gawain wonders if he should ask Yeva to perform a spell or something to check whether the boy is, actually, his. That night with both of Percival’s parents was wild enough, and he was so young and careless that…

It is something he has been delaying for a month, mostly because he does not know what to do if his suspicion is confirmed. And right now he has a more pressing matter.

“So. You are marrying Lancelot.”

Yes. That.

“I would appreciate it if you did not talk about it in the presence of others,” Gawain remarks sternly, as they walk down the thankfully empty hallway side by side, and then sighs. “But yes. I am.”

The boy furrows his brow. “Why can’t I talk about it?”

“Because I haven’t asked her yet.”

“Well, when will you?”

“In a week.”

The silence that follows is short but full of doubt. “Is that enough?..”

“It’d better be,” Gawain replies brightly, as they round the corner, “because otherwise we’re fucked.”

Giving him a sideways glance, the boy frowns. “You told me not to use that word.”

“Did I?” he clarifies airily. “I think I might have also said that you can if the situation is grave.”

The rest of the way to his study is made in silence, but once the door shuts behind them and Percival leans against it, his arms crossed, Gawain all but hears the sound of the mouse trap snapping shut.

“And is it? Grave?” the boy asks, bowing his head and staring at him from under the grown bangs he has taken to fashioning into some confused blend between different Feys’ styles.

He plans on answering with an appropriately optimistic, vague and dignified response, but when he opens his mouth, the words that come flooding out are anything but that.

“I am to beguile Lancelot so that she accepts my marriage proposal in a fortnight so that my father, a right bastard, would give us the troops and supplies we desperately need and the rights to this castle which is still, strictly speaking, his. It means that if Lancelot refuses, my entire folk will be left homeless to die out of hunger — if paladins don’t get to use first.” He sucks a sharp breath in. “One also has to keep in mind that Lancelot is the only woman in the castle who did not express any interest in either me or—a relationship—in general.”

With every word, the weight of the responsibility grows heavier, until it becomes so unbearable that he has to sit down, burying his head in his hands.

“You weren’t thinking,” Percival remarks shrewdly, and if with anyone else he would have denied it until his dying breath, now Gawain just sighs and nods, running a hand over his face.

“No. I was not thinking.”

Scoffing, the boy scrunches his nose, and fall quiet. His face grows darker by the minute, but it is difficult to say what is on his mind. At least there is no need to worry he will let anyone know about the plan — the only thing Gawain is afraid of is that his protective streak will get in the way.

That would be quite awkward, indeed. For now, though, Percival seems to be lost in thought, obviously gearing up to say something, and he lets him do so. It is pleasant to just sit in silence with someone, sometimes, even if he has to get back to work – and at the thought, his gaze drifts to the desk, again, to the scattered pieces of birch bark.

Belatedly, he realizes he has actually forgotten to lock the door and curses himself inwardly for being too sleep-deprived to notice. But then his thoughts are cut short by the fact that the bark pieces seem to be shuffled — there is one now placed a bit further from the rest.

From this angle, Gawain can only see the cross painted on it with a piece of charcoal and a dotted line. Frowning, he cocks his head to the side, trying to make out the details, and then abruptly pushes up to walk over and study it carefully. If he is reading the plan correctly, he might cut the losses in two — or, if Hidden favour them, even get away without losing anyone.

Only two people in the castle could have come up with that, and Kaze is out, given her mission near the lake. That leaves Lancelot.

Perhaps, Gawain thinks with a slowly growing smile, not everything is lost.

She wanders into his study sometimes, just watching him for a bit before going away again. He is not sure what she is looking for. It might be she isn’t, either, but her visits are frequent enough to hint that something keeps drawing her in, even if they rarely talk. Not that he has not tried, but Lancelot seemed unwilling to speak unless forced, and eventually he let her be.

The only difference with an indignant but curious cat is that the girl can open the doors herself. The memory of how ruffled, how desperate she looks whenever she thinks he is not looking makes Gawain’s lips twitch in a smile.

Surprising as it is, he has grown fond of the feral changeling he has fought tooth and nail to keep alive in the first weeks, both from herself and others. She is his, already, even if she does not know it yet, and the thought makes him bite on his lip to contain a grin.

“Sir?” Percival calls out, leaning against the table with his face scrunched up in a confused grimace. “Is it true that you can—,” he stumbles briefly, as if recalling the words, the frown growing deeper, “—fascinate a woman with a piece of cheese?”

Choking on nothing, Gawain coughs for a moment, before forcing out a strained: “What?”

With a slightly more crestfallen look on his face, Percival repeats.

It takes an incredible effort, but he does not laugh. Just smiles, raising his brows in disbelief and tilting his head. “Where did you hear that nonsense?”

“I read it in a book.” 

Gods, have mercy on them. Perhaps the decision to teach the boy literacy was a rash one.

“What kind of books are you reading?..”

“Spells, Charms and Incantations,” Percival mumbles, barely audible, as he fidgets with the hem of his sleeve and then sniffles.

“Is it, by chance, from that specific bookshelf I told you not to approach before your voice breaks?”

Looking away, the boy worries his bottom lip with his teeth, a perfect picture of someone who would like to be in any other place than the one they are in right now. 

With a sigh, Gawain recalls his own exploration of that particular sort of literature. He knew he should have just burnt that section of the library.

“Depends on a woman, I guess,” he murmurs, pinching the bridge of his nose, and then blinks, a sudden idea dawning on him. “Actually…”

The horrified look the boy sends him almost balances out the shame he feels for his earlier outburst, and then Gawain is swept away by inspiration.

“Percival,” he announces, “the fate of Fay depends on you. Go to the kitchens, bring me some cheese and wine, an, oh,” a list of the standard ingredients follows, appropriate for a romantic dinner one might organise for courtship. The boy’s face growing progressively sourer; but being the knight is not all about swinging a sword, sometimes it is about marrying strange and dangerous women out of spite, at least if you ask Gawain. “Also, find Weller and tell him to send someone to the roof, before it falls on our heads.”

_ ~ an hour after the first dinner with Lancelot ~ _

The lap under his head is firm, and the hand in his hair is, too. He prefers it to softness, truth be told. Especially now, when he feels so drunk with remorse, the aftertaste of wine stale and sour on his tongue, that the touch is both grounding and punishing, though it is not the thought he wants to unravel.

“How the hell did I miss it,” he says, the words coming out with such effort, there is no strength left to intone. 

Leaning back against the headboard of the bed, Kaze hums, carding her fingers through his tangled strands, tugging slowly at them to make them fall apart. It is the first time they have seen each other in a week, and he has missed her more than he is willing to admit. 

Unsettled by the thought, he twists around, sitting up and glancing at her. She was ordered by Polly to stay in bed and let the potion work, knitting the fracture in her leg that was the reason for her delay in returning back from the lake that was, according to the rumours, haunted. Haunted by a ghost of a young girl — the girl with blue eyes, they say.

Merlin had vanished into thin air the moment he has heard that. Morgana followed right after, and now all that is left is waiting for them to work their magic and return. Hopefully, with his sworn sister in tow.

But for now, he has another blue-eyed menace to worry about. The one that first insisted she is not Fey, then that she is not a woman, as if she can change the fact by sheer force of will. Recalling their dinner, Gawain buries his head into his hands with a heavy sigh, then glances back at Kaze, the weight of his gloomy observations twisting the corners of his mouth down.

“She looked so... Starved.”

“So that cook did hold a grudge, after all?” the woman frowns, and he presses his lips into a thin line, frowning. “This bloody ambush kept me from looking into it.”

“It’s fine — I already talked to him.” He falters under her pointed stare and slightly raised brows, then flushes and looks away, fingers of one hand brushing over the bruised knuckles of another. “But it’s not only that. With the touch, Kaze, she was — she looked at me like she wanted to eat me whole and then froze when I touched her. I’ve never seen someone be so wary of a simple, gentle gesture.”

“Did you?..”

“No. I wanted to but... I think she already tolerated me only because she is so desperate.”

The confession that he hoped this affair could hold at least a grain of genuine affection is left unspoken. Kaze hardly needs to hear it — for her shrewd eyes, the fact that he has struggled to keep his interest in Lancelot on a short leash for weeks has not gone unnoticed. Granted, it was merely a fascination with this stubborn and strange wallflower, but it is still disheartening to feel as if he is forcing her hand so much.

“I don’t think it’s the only reason she came,” the woman says softly, and he starts, looking up at her again. She is not the one to give people false hope out of pity. “But she is afraid of what she wants and would deny having any weaknesses. I asked whether she eats enough when I noticed she is paler than usual, but she lied, little fox,” she clicks her tongue and lets her head fall back, staring at the ceiling with contempt. “She did it well enough to fool me.”

Gawain hums, sympathising with the frustration, as he wrings his hands together. For a short while, they are both engrossed in their thoughts.

“Is it self punishment, is that why she does it?” he blurts, turning back to the woman. ”I thought we were past that. Thought she stopped hiding her injuries. But it seems all she did was learn how to lie better.” 

He can’t help it. The words are bitter; made so mostly by his resentment at himself. With a sigh, Kaze shifts, getting more comfortable, which is probably tricky, giving how she can’t move her leg.

“I don’t think it is intentional anymore. But the teachings of that cult will linger regardless of what she — and you — wish. Don’t beat yourself up — it’s a waste of time you don’t have.” 

Taking a deep breath, he gives a tense nod and wills himself to focus on what really matters. “How can I fix it?” 

Eyes fixed on the wooden beams under the ceiling, Kaze is quiet for some time, the crackle of the fire in the hearth filling the silence. When she finally speaks, it is soft, each word uttered in a wistful, measured tone that makes Gawain freeze.

“In her mind, she depends on your approval to survive. You can use it to build a bond—to nudge her. But remember that you can change her a lot. Be careful with it.” 

Twisting the silver ring on his finger, blinding glimmers of fire dancing across its band, Gawain nods.

“I will be,” he utters softly. “As much as I can.” 

_ ~ two hours before the second dinner with Lancelot ~ _

The healers’ room is only lit by a meagre handful of candles this late, but when Gawain slips through the door, the person he seeks is still there, sorting through the herbs laid out on the table in front of her.

“Pym? Wait — put that nettle down — wait, I said. I need a favour, I will owe you one.”

Slowly lowering the bunch of nettles she was brandishing threateningly, Pym frowns. “What this time?” 

“You’re close with Lancelot, right?” he asks, propping his hip up against the table, that creaks in warning, the bottles clinking, and he hurries to straighten, urged by the heavy stare of the young woman.

She hums as she puts the nettle down and picks up a jar instead, its contents rattling softly. “As in, our rooms are next to each other? Then yes. Thanks for that, by the way, wondering every night if I will wake up or not truly makes me appreciate every dawn.”

“Oh, come on, I bet you love the thrill,” he grins, dodging the acorn nut she chucks his way. “Keeps you on your toes—but seriously. Is she a bit used to you?”

Bending over to pick up the nut, Pym pauses, considering the reply, and then shrugs. “Well. I suppose she glares at me as if to say  _ I would kill you in the least painful way _ and not  _ You will envy the dead by the time I am done with you _ as she does the rest of the women.”

The apprehension he has felt about the second attempt at getting the skittish misfit into his bed lets up its grip a bit, even though he would definitely need to figure out if Pym is exaggerating or not. “... Yes, well, that is related to the favour.”

Wiping her hands on an apron, Pym tugs it off and folds it neatly on the table, before turning to face him. “Alright, what nefarious thing do you need me to do this time?”

He explains.

“So, let me make sure I got it right,” Pym says slowly, narrowing her eyes as if she is looking at something very bright and thus confusing. “I will join you two for dinner… to make her feel safer—and then I am to leave early under a false pretence.” When he nods, she blinks once, and then, after a short pause, again. “Why do you need that, precisely?”

He explains that, too.

_ “Gawain, what the fuck?!” _

_ ~ half an hour after what was supposed to be their third dinner ~ _

There is a soft knock on the door of his bedroom, and Gawain startles, tosses his head back, melted snow running down his face as he hurries to wipe it off with the back of his hand. He has scooped it from his window sill in a desperate attempt to banish the feelings evoked by their brief tumble, but it did next to nothing.

It is still dripping from his hair as he strides over to yank the door open, thoughts tangled in an incoherent mess and gait made awkward by lingering arousal. The hope he has just managed to smother flares up again, brighter than before, at the sight of the messy light curls swept over the wild blue eyes, widened in apprehension. 

“Lancelot,” he breathes out, a grin tugging on the corner of his lips. “Have you…”

He doesn’t get to finish, because there is a sound of hurried footsteps rapidly approaching the room, and, panic flashing in her eyes, Lancelot dives under his arm, the door shutting with a resounding thud behind her.


	5. rip off my socks like you're blasting the locks off of a bank vault

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Back to Lancelot's POV. This is pure sexual tension between Gawain and him & some exploration of each other. Some more plot and character-study parts will be in the next chapter.  
> 

To be fair, it is a miracle he has made it that far through the maze of hallways without being caught, given how hazy he feels—nearly drunk, though he has too little experience with that feeling to compare. If it wasn’t for the urgency of not being seen, Lancelot would probably not have gathered the courage to knock, at all.

A few seconds wait is excruciating. The moment the door opens is a relief no matter what the outcome would be simply because it means he longer has to guess.

When the hurried cling of steel announces the approach of the night watch, Lancelot almost surrenders, the words of a prayer leaping to his tongue before he can catch them. His mind is blank, stunned into silence by the prospect of being discovered darkening the knight’s doorstep at this hour of the night.

However, his skittish, weird, starved body takes the matters in its own hands and propels him forward; it all but catches him by the scruff and throws him into the room. Driven by the well-honed instinct, he avoids the collision with the solid frame in front of him but still stumbles awkwardly as he spins around to press against the wall next to the doorframe. He only has time to glance up and meet Gawain’s eyes, before the door shuts close, trapping him inside.

Heart racing like a rabbit being chased by a fox, Lancelot holds his gaze. For a short moment, they stare at each other, both trying to make sense of their new positions and the implications behind them. The tension grows heavy like a thundercloud between them; it is still in the distance, still silent, but it is zapped through with lightning. 

The water droplets are gleaming like precious dew on the golden skin; one of them is sliding unhurriedly down the temple. It reaches the hinge of the jaw and Lancelot swallows thickly when he sees it slow down, caught in the short dark bristle. It is so close to his face, so truculent and imperfect, it demands him to reach out and touch it...

An insistent knock, loud like a peal of thunder, snaps him out of his fascination so fast he nearly feels sick. 

He certainly does when he hears the rapid, worried breaths on the other side of the door. His eyes flicker up in a silent plea, fear devouring shame, as he stands with his back pressed awkwardly against the angle of the wall. This way, he is hidden from the guard’s eyes — as long as Gawain stands between them, shielding him with his broad frame. Right now, he does precisely that, but it would only take him a minute shift to reveal the prey he’s caught in his snares.

His heart stuck in his throat and head lowered in a vain attempt to hide his face behind the blond curls that are plenty recognisable on their own, Lancelot is silent. Inwardly, he wonders if Gawain is the kind of a hunter to boast about his trophies when they are bizarre enough. A moment stretches, twisting like the fibres in the rope of a noose, suffocating him. 

The second knock makes him jump, ruthless nausea twisting his insides in an iron grip. He throws a desperate look at the knight, wordlessly begging him to have mercy and end this game—why is he not doing anything, just stands there with his arms crossed—why is he reaching out to catch his hand—

“Sir Gawain?”

—tugs the door open, leaning against the wall with one shoulder to shield him from view completely.

“Yes?” he asks calmly, not moving an inch to let the other man in, and Lancelot nearly swoons with relief.

“Oh,” the guard breathes out, sounding equally relieved, even if for an entirely different reason. “You’re alive!”

Raising his eyebrows, Gawain tilts his head, a polite smile on his face that does not reach his eyes. Lancelot cannot see the guard’s reaction, but he has seen enough of such situations to know that even relatively unflappable people tend to colour a bit when Gawain looks at them like that.

“Indeed, I am. Any reason I wouldn’t be?” he asks, and his thumb doesn’t stop moving in slow circles, brushing over Lancelot’s wrist in both a warning and a gentle shushing. It is a small, barely there gesture that can’t be seen from the door, but it takes up all of his mind right now.

Swallowing tightly, he shifts, a demanding tug between his legs as he considers how to react and whether to react at all. 

In the end, his craving wins, and he hesitantly brushes his fingers over in reply. The grip on his wrist tightens once, and his breath hitches. But before he can press just a bit closer, greedy and wondering, the voice of the guard breaks him out of his daze and makes him press against the wall again. 

“Not particularly, Sir, but there was someone in the hallway — I thought they went into your chamber.”

“Ah. Well, you’ve seen right. I am... With a lady,” Gawain mutters, fighting back a smile. In his turn, Lancelot does not find the situation nearly as amusing, but his glare misses the knight and gets lost like an unfortunate arrow.

”Oh. I thought I saw Lancelot round the corner, but I must have been mistaken then. If so... Uh. Good night, sir—I suppose you’d have one, anyway…”

“Indeed, I will. You did well by warning me, but there is no need to worry. I just saw Lancelot recently. He should be soundly asleep by now. So, if that is all—good. Good night, Aldric,” Gawain nods, shuts the door and immediately turns around and bites into his knuckle, but loses and finally buries his face in his hands, shoulders shaking with silent laughter. 

Sliding down the wall a bit before catching himself and halting at least his physical descent if not spiritual, Lancelot leans his head back, the stone pleasantly cool against it, and breathes out slowly. 

”One time they get that right,” he mutters, straightening, but still keeps his eyes trained on the floor. Before he can come up with a plan of how to get back, Gawain is turning to him with a lopsided smirk, pulling him closer and catching him by the chin.

“Come here,” he whispers, giving him dozens of short, hungry kisses, one after another, more like very tender bites on his lips. They are very unexpected, but Lancelot doesn’t mind, doesn’t mind at all — tilts his head to catch them, trying to turn them into something deeper. With a hum, Gawain lets him press against him, his arms weaving behind his back to bring them closer together as he starts kissing his neck.

“Gawain,” Lancelot calls out quietly, swallows the last syllables in a gasp, then tries again, before his restraint is broken by that tender assault he is not sure if he wants to fight against. “Gawain?”

“Yes?” The knight murmurs, not faltering in his steady, insistent exploration, lips and teeth pressing under his ear and then dipping to his throat. 

“I — I shouldn’t be here,” he says but falters and what should have been the resolute statement comes out as a question.

“You’re exactly where you should be,” Gawain argues in a low voice, while he tugs the shirt out and slides his hands under, their touch slightly chill and rough against the warm skin of Lancelot’s stomach. 

Startled, he gasps and draws back, coiling tight, but the hands do not retreat. They linger on his skin, a soft brush right under his navel and a tight grip on his hip. 

“Wait,” he breathes out clutching at the man’s forearm, more of a plea than it is a warning. “Wait—I…”

Slowing down obediently, Gawain sighs, just a barely audible sound as he presses a bit closer as if to compensate for the halt.

“Sorry,” he murmurs into his crown, pressing a kiss to the tangled curls and running one hand through them as the other rests on the small of Lancelot’s back. “It’s easy to get carried away with you.”

“Why?” Lancelot frowns. 

Gawain draws back a bit, just enough to look him in the eye.

“You’re… unusual,” he says softly. “So—genuine.”

There is a faint frown on his face, but Lancelot is too distracted by everything else he sees. It is just as close as when they tumbled together on the floor of his room, only now it is more solemn, there is more light, more golden-filled air around them. His attention is like a butterfly fluttering from one thing to another, from the hollow of the knight’s throat to the curve of his shoulder, and he reaches out without thinking, tracing it with his fingertips.

“Yes,” Gawain chuckles, catching his fingers and pressing a quick kiss to them. “That’s what I’m talking about.”

“I still shouldn’t be here,” Lancelot insists quietly, and even to his own ears, his voice sounds unhappy enough to make him wince.

There is a beat of tense silence, and then Gawain slowly goes on his knees under Lancelot’s bewildered stare. His face is earnest and raw when he tilts his head back, hands slowly retreating to rest over the hips where they are covered by the fabric. 

“Stay,” he murmurs, before he leans closer and presses a firm kiss over his stomach, his mouth hot even through the thin linen of the shirt. It starts chaste, the first kiss close-lipped, but the next one is a nip, a bite, and the next is hungry and lustful.

Eyes half-closed, Gawain presses his open mouth under his navel like he wants to devour him. The fabric grows wet and the odd sensation makes Lancelot stiffen — but he can’t draw back, the answering pull that mirrors the caress from the inside is too strong. It is a physical force that counteracts the fear and makes him freeze, caught in between two warring impulses. 

And then Gawain brushes his fingers over the warm, vulnerable spot down there that thrums, desperate for the touch; the feeling is so intense that Lancelot gasps, arching away. It is a silent scream trapped in his body, a ghost of some violent longing, skittish and curious at the same time like a wild animal that has never seen a person before. Gawain chases it ruthlessly as he presses his fingers back over the heated fabric and moves them slowly back and forth. With a strained, embarrassing sound, Lancelot jerks his hips back — and then rolls them forward, seeking the friction again. He gets it immediately, firm fingers sliding to meet him, and this time he feels them push a bit deeper. 

There is a small smirk on Gawain’s lips as he leans his temple against Lancelot’s hip and plants a deep kiss in the middle of his stomach. It is still laid over the thin layer of cloth separating them but the hunger in it is enough to make it feel like there is nothing in between. It is invasive—but also wildly pleasurable.

Taking a quiet inhale, Lancelot freezes, until the knight looks up at him. When their eyes meet, Gawain raises his brows, and slowly drags his fingers back and forth again, making him whimper low in his throat and buck his hips. He acts like an animal in rut, Lancelot thinks with a flush, but before he can stop, Gawain moves, easing up on him — instead, more kisses follow, sloppy and hard. When Lancelot sags a bit, eager to absorb them, he presses his hand again, firmer than before, thrusting his fingers in between his thighs in a way that makes Lancelot choke and arch. 

Out of some deep-buried, reawakened instinct, his legs fall just a bit more open. It is a damning, undignified gesture, and he sucks a breath in, readying for a struggle of getting them back together. 

He almost does, but when he glances down the last time to see Gawain with his cheeks flushed as he keeps taking care of his ache, he hesitates. The thrill is too intense, an unrelenting current of a river swollen by the rains. He is stuck in the middle of it, clinging to the rock of his resistance with his pride and his fear—though the former slipped away the moment he raised his fist to knock on the door of this room.

The fear is subsiding, too, the visage of a rapacious wolf from the cautionary tales crumbling. With Gawain kneeling in front of him, posture stiff with an effort to hold back, no armour to protect his vulnerable vertebrae, no weapons at his hand, Lancelot feels—unexpectedly even for him—dangerous. With an easy twist of his hands, he can break the man’s neck right now. 

And still, Gawain, even though he must know it, seems ready to risk it. Perhaps, he can risk something, too, in return. Especially if doing so means he gets to see this vulnerable, generous side for a bit longer.

When Gawain draws his hand back, his fingertips are a bit moist, and the smell of musk is so strong that Lancelot winces. He can see the darker patch on his trousers, and it is embarrassing, filthy; it makes him light-headed, his knees almost buckling.

“Let’s get you out of these,” Gawain murmurs, reaching to grip the hem of his trousers.

With a short, strained whine, Lancelot grasps at his hands. At once, Gawain stills. “No?”

Taking a shaky inhale, Lancelot shakes his head, panic closing his throat. 

Slowly, Gawain rises from his knees, and it is as if something has shifted, the shadows growing darker. Swallowing thickly, Lancelot meets his eyes. He no longer feels in control — and it is terrifying. The fire still crackles the same in the hearth, but now it is not a comfort, it is a warning. When Gawain moves, he squeezes his eyes shut, coiling tight, but no hit comes — though the kiss is violent enough for their teeth to clack, almost drawing blood. It hurts, but it is a relief compared to what Lancelot feared it would be. The brief soreness is chased away by the gentler care that makes him unwind a bit before Gawain draws back.

“Why?” He murmurs against his lips. 

Blinking rapidly, Lancelot sucks the air in.

“Because,” he starts but is interrupted by another kiss. This one is more thorough, the silent determination driving him back as he yields in surprise; it makes his toes curl, makes him arch. 

Head swimming, he manages to break the kiss first. Now, he has one leg hooked over Gawain’s shin, drawing him closer, and he stares at it for a second, catching his breath, before looking up, into the calm green eyes.

“It is,” he tries again, and again he is silenced by the demanding tongue erasing his awkward explanation, sliding against his own and making Lancelot forget he can speak at all. 

“Tell me,” Gawain whispers right into his mouth as if luring the words out. “Come on. Say it.”

“It’s a sin,” Lancelot breathes out, awed and terrified, and blinks when nothing happens. The words were supposed to be absolute, final, but somehow they sound foolish and empty. It is a spell that has lost its power, stolen away by rough mouth and firm hands on him. 

Gawain hums, a careless, lazy look on his face. “Debatable,” he says, and then adds: “We don’t have to fuck right now if that is what you are worried about. But I do want to know more of you.”

“I don’t understand,” Lancelot confesses, barely audible, and his stomach tightens at the impatient way the knight squints. 

However, the touch on his hips, his side stays gentle. It is slow, calming, the way the warm palms slide over his back and cup his shoulder blades to shield them from the stone. Lancelot tries to listen to that feeling, not to the clipped tone in which Gawain answers. 

“I want to see you naked in my bed, Lancelot. Want for us to lay together—just map the uncharted territory out. Get used to each other. You won’t lose anything from this. Only gain — only learn.”

Frowning slightly, Lancelot throws his head back and tries to think. He draws a deep breath in an attempt to gather his thoughts, but it does not make a difference. He is just too overwrought for any logic to stand a chance; the arousal is a dull ache in his stomach, and he wants it gone. Gawain already did it once, if he can do it again… if he can take this emptiness away and fill it with that warmth and light just once more… 

Licking his lips, he gives a small nod. Gawain smiles at that, and even though it is slightly tense, he seems eager when he pulls him by the elbow, drawing him deeper into the room. It feels like stepping into an enchanted forest, into the underground kingdoms-- dangers, riches and bizarre wonders ahead. His gait sure, the degree of collected confidence restored, Gawain guides him further in, and Lancelot trails behind, more lost with every moment.

Just shy of reaching the bed that looms like a sacrificial altar in front of him, Gawain veers to the side, stops at the desk and picks up the jug of water. While he pours it in a tankard, Lancelot stands frozen a step away, studying his face: the small smile resting on the reddened, dry lips, the faint shadows cast by the lowered eyelashes, the tiniest imperfections in his skin, marks of cold weather and fights. It should be ordinary, but instead, it looks strangely mysterious. From what he has heard, many things are seen from a new angle when you cross the threshold, ignoring the wise warnings, and stumble into the strange world where everything is upside down. 

Chilled by the gust of a draft that steals into the room from under the closed door, Lancelot shudders and runs his hands over his forearms in a vain attempt to smoothen the prickling goosebumps.

“Come here,” Gawain calls out at that moment, not looking at him as he brings the goblet to his lips to take a sip. 

One hand still clasped around the elbow of the other arm, Lancelot takes a careful step closer. He glances in uncertainty between the second tankard and Gawain, who keeps drinking his fill in measured sips, eyes absently fixed on the table.

When he does glance up, his eyes are sharp, and the threat of it sends another shiver down Lancelot’s spine. Without a thought, his body shifts slightly, readjusting the weight into a semblance of a fighting stance. 

“Pour some, too,” Gawain orders, letting go of the handle of the jug.

Wordlessly, Lancelot reaches out to take over. His hands only tremble when they hover in the air, but once he wraps his fingers around the handle, the metal is warm and hard under his palm. It is familiar, reassuring, and the weight of the vessel grounds him as he tips it, the water trickling into the cup.

Finished with his own drink, Gawain keeps silent as he watches him put the jug down and slowly lift the full tankard. The taste of clear cold water comes first, followed by an aftertaste of metal as Lancelot takes the first swallow.

Out of the corner of his eye, he sees Gawain raise a hand to place his fingers on the bottom of the tankard, as if to steady it. The movement is slow enough not to make him shy away or stop; it is so slow that he doesn’t move at all, throat working around another gulp. The third one comes easier, his body relaxing out of instinct, the tension unwinding. There is no need for something stronger to be in that cup—the trick works plenty well as it is.

When the metal presses against his bottom lip, pushed slightly forward by Gawain’s fingertips, Lancelot hesitates for a moment, spine stiffening again. The tankard is still half-full, suspended in the fragile balance, caught in between the hand and the mouth.

After a short pause, driven by the gut feeling, he tips it over again to take another swallow. The pressure from the other side is slow, but it does not subside, angling the tankard until it starts to overflow. It trickles out of the corner of his mouth, makes him sputter and choke briefly. There is a flash of primal panic at that, but it is gone in a blink as Lancelot realises there is not enough water to harm him, that he already breathes again, ragged and heavy as it is.

The blackness that eats the edges of his vision has nothing to do with fear as the tankard is pulled out of his tightly clenched fingers. Putting it aside, Gawain moves fluidly closer, and Lancelot should have seen it coming, but he hasn’t — not until a bruising kiss is sucked under the hinge of his jaw, where the skin is still tender from before. He only just makes a soft protesting noise when the ache is soothed by Gawain licking over it.

The slow drag of his tongue makes Lancelot heave for air as he arches and cranes his neck in silent permission. It is easier this way for the man to lick away the water that has run down his neck. By now, it has reached the collar of his shirt, soaking the fabric, making it cling to his skin. With a low, pleased hum, Gawain lifts his hand and runs his thumb over the wet spot under his clavicle, rubbing over it and pressing in. 

“Take it off,” he murmurs, his hoarse voice ghosting warmly over the skin he seems unwilling to part with.

“You first,” Lancelot insists in an urgent whisper, his voice breaking. He is clutching the broad shoulders as if they offer a lifeline, a rope thrown into tumultuous waters — even though the knight was the one who shoved him there in the first place.

“Alright,” Gawain shrugs with one shoulder, pulling back a bit and, to Lancelot’s lament, taking away the warmth. “A bit of help?” he adds, already unclasping the belt holding his tunic. 

Lancelot nearly turns on his heel, before remembering that he has seen it before, and turning back. He might have seen it, but the implication right now changes everything, turns it all upside down again. It is different, so different from treating injuries or seeing another man bathe. It is like seeing the knife laying on a kitchen table and seeing it drawn out of the sheath in a fight, but the old, dark voice in him compels him to bring that blade to his skin.

With hesitant fingers, he reaches out to undo the laces running down the side. All while he works on the intricate knots, Gawain is watching him in silence. One by one, he idly slides his many rings off, putting them aside, silver gleaming against dark wood as they take their place next to the jug. 

When Lancelot looks up at him, his face is impassive, but there is a gleam of hunger and amusement in his eyes that makes him flush and lower his eyes, angrily yanking at the drawstrings.

They refuse to cooperate, and for a moment, he wonders if it is a sign. Even if it is one, he can just cut them, Lancelot decides, on the verge of reaching for the closest knife.

Covering his hand, Gawain slowly pulls it away and brings it up to his mouth. Wary at first, Lancelot follows it with his eyes—and then, mesmerised, watches how the red, dry lips press against his knuckles. It is a gentle, insistent caress that grows bolder as Gawain starts to kiss down the cold fingers, his other hand working the laces. He doesn’t even have to look; his eyes stay fixed on Lancelot’s face, the intensity in them as blinding as high noon sun. The maddening slide of his lips makes Lancelot flush hot and cold until they reach the fingertips—and then his breath hitches as Gawain sucks them in his mouth. 

It is warm and moist in that hidden space guarded by the sharp edge of white teeth. The smooth glide of a tongue along his digits, between them, a taunting offer, fills Lancelot’s head with drumming that he belatedly realises is his own heartbeat. It is echoed through his entire body, erupting under his navel, in his ribs, beating and fluttering in every hidden part of him, a restless shifting presence under his skin that compels him to move forward.

With the lacing sufficiently loosened, the slit in the fabric grows wider, the dark green linen of the tunic parting to reveal the thinner, softer one inside. Tugging it off, Gawain pulls the shirt over his head too as if it is nothing, lets it fall to the side and straightens. The firm, flat planes of his muscles, and how unbothered he is by being half-naked make Lancelot’s throat close with jealousy for a short moment, but then it is overshadowed by cautious awe. 

Seemingly oblivious to this, Gawain gently urges him to tug his shirt off, too, and as fair as it is, it is still a challenge. He first fumbles with the hem and then almost gets stuck, a soft ripping sound when his elbow catches on the fabric.

It is so far from his usual grace in a fight, the only saving grace he has, that Lancelot grows angry. Pressing his lips in a tight line and narrowing his eyes, he yanks the garment off with force.

It stays in one piece. Well, save for a couple of torn stitches.

Finally out of it, Lancelot pauses and casts a cautious glance back at Gawain to reassess the situation. He only gets a moment to determine it is still safe, before an open palm is extended to him, a silent demand to surrender the shirt he is still clutching to his chest. 

As he gives it up, his eyes wander to the angry darkness swelling along the knight’s ribs, prominent even in the dim light. It is an imprint of his own shoe from their fight. Even though Lancelot was mildly proud of how that went down, right now he is not sure what he feels, seeing it mar the fair bronzed skin days later.

“Does it still hurt?” he wonders aloud, fingers hovering over the bruises. 

Giving him an askance glance as he puts his shirt away, Gawain nods tensely. Letting go of the threadbare soaked fabric, he takes his hand instead and tugs it closer to press his fingers to the mottled skin. Barely a flinch crosses his face, as he tilts his head with an expectant air. 

“Does it excite you?” he asks in a quiet, a bit faraway voice.

“No,” Lancelot frowns as he glances up, then shakes his head, before looking back at where his white fingers are splayed over the muted green and blue blooming into each other. “Why would it?”

“It’s your claim,” he replies calmly.

Eyes widening, Lancelot considers the bruises again. There is certain morbid beauty in them, but his stomach squirms with the idea that the man in front of him is hurt. He has never considered it a claim, though. Or, he realises, he has just never given words to the feeling he got when making the knight yield to his attacks. 

“How do you do this?” He hesitantly clarifies, a barely audible question he does not really expect any reaction to, but Gawain hums in reply, embracing him again.

“What?”

“How do you know what it is?” Lancelot says with a small vague gesture that he tries to encompass the entire situation with. 

Scoffing in amusement, Gawain pulls him closer.

“Practice. You want to learn, too?” he asks in a low voice as he bows his head. The auburn strands fall heavily, uncurling as he presses his lips to the collar bone, near where pulse flutters under the pale, thin skin.

Breath caught in his throat, Lancelot nods and raises his hand to card his fingers through that wild banner of red, strands streaming down and slipping between his knuckles.

“Then let’s begin the lesson,” Gawain mutters, punctuates it with another hard kiss on his shoulder, then skims his fingers down his side, stopping on the linen wrapped around his chest. “May I?”

“I… suppose,” Lancelot answers awkwardly. He is not particularly fond of the idea, but it seems he needs to do that if he wants to get the rest, so. 

Gawain’s fingers are light and sure when they find the end of the strip and tug at it carefully, but it does little to calm down Lancelot’s pounding heart. At least he manages to contain his strained breathing, shallow and too fast. 

The knight tugs the binding apart, unravels it one by one just as that chrysalis shroud and Lancelot’s heart palpitates like an alien creature that does not know its way around his chest. When Gawain slides a hand up his ribs, it feels like a stab, all this care wrapped up in a single gesture; it draws a gasp out of him that is more pained than anything as he recoils. 

For a moment, it looks like Gawain wants to say something. Instead, he closes his eyes, takes a sharp intake of breath and just puts the linen aside.

“I won’t touch if that distresses you so.”

Once Lancelot gives a quick, anxious nod, he reaches out to bring him closer, wrapping him in his arms.

“Not more than this,” he promises quietly as his teeth graze over the shell of his ear, but Lancelot barely hears him over the gasp that escapes his throat as he desperately presses closer. The firm, steady heat that he is generously given overwhelms him, leaves him breathless and taut like a bowstring as he blindly seeks more of it.

With a strained whimper, Lancelot hides his face in the crook of Gawain’s shoulder, but he cannot escape it there. The heady, strong scent is pooled even more in the dip between the curved bones, and he licks into it without thinking. It is a quick, shy gesture, but it is there; abashed by it, he tightens the grip on the man’s shoulder.

“Come here,” he feels Gawain chuckle warmly into to his ear. The world tilts a bit as his leg is hoisted up, the steady palm sliding up from the knee to bring him closer. It is a precarious position, the one that requires standing on tiptoes of one leg, but it does allow him to get more of the warmth and the touch.

It can still be more.

With a soft frustrated sound, Lancelot pushes off the ground to wrap both his legs around the hips of Gawain, who just looks up with a wry smile on his face. The dark red strands spill over his forehead when he tosses his head back, but they do not cover the amused gleam in his eyes. Taking a step to the bed, he lowers himself on its edge, which is a bit of a manoeuvre and ends with Lancelot having to let go of the embrace briefly.

He must make another distressed sound at that because Gawain shushes him gently before reaching out again. His hand slides over Lancelot’s neck as he falls backwards, drawing him along. Leaning readily into the touch, Lancelot joins him, quickly finds himself caught in another kiss—and returns it, hungry and thrumming with excitement from the tips of his fingers to his toes. Straddling Gawain’s hips, he grinds experimentally and bites on his lip, satisfied with the heat blossoming from the point of contact. It takes the edge off his crave, grounds him enough to pay attention to other things.

There are so many, he does not know which one to choose. There is a warm, rough palm sliding up his forearm, skimming over the sensitive skin on the inside, and he shifts slightly to let it touch more. The other hand briefly cups the back of his head before it slides over to cradle his cheek, and he turns his head to press into it. A deep inhale brings more of the heady scent, captured in the faint blue veins running under the tanned skin, in the scatter of coarse hairs glinting golden in the candlelight. Emboldened by it, he nuzzles into the palm, steals a quick kiss that is acknowledged by a slight twitch of the fingers on his face.

He is a bit disoriented by all this touch, and does not immediately notice that Gawain has reached down, between them. When he realises what he is doing, Lancelot narrows his eyes and bites his lip.

“Let me,” he croaks, already diving down and swatting away the hand—strangely bare without the rings—to pick up the knots. These ones go easier, even though he has to use his teeth once. But in the end, it only takes him a couple of moments to get rid of them.

At the sharp intake of breath above him, Lancelot looks up with a faint frown. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing,” Gawain mutters from where he is propped up on his elbows, watching him with intent focus. His pupils are blown wide, and he is clutching the coverlet just a bit tighter in his fist, Lancelot notices, and it gives him pause. Glancing down, he finally realises what must have prompted the reaction and flushes.

“Oh,” he says nervously. “I—is it…”

“It’s perfect,” Gawain reassures with a chuckle, reaching out for him.

Drawn into another embrace, Lancelot lets himself be pushed to the side. He goes with next to no resistance, content to simply stretch alongside him, pressed close, and breathe Gawain in, while the man is busy wriggling out of his trousers and boots. It is the first time he sees the knight from this angle, so he looks his fill, trying to memorise the way shadows bring out some details and conceal the others. There is a slightest jut in the curve of Gawain’s nose that must be a side effect of a past tavern brawl. When his eyes roam over the thick, unruly hair spilling in red rivulets over the bare shoulders, Lancelot startles in surprise, noticing a couple of silver threads woven into it. 

Edging closer, he curls on his side and reaches out to run his fingers down Gawain’s ribs, over the bruises. They radiate a bit more heat than the rest of his skin, and Lancelot swallows thickly, stroking them gently. He is too caught up in gorging himself on all the sensations to protest when they switch positions, Gawain sliding down to settle between his legs. There is a tell-tale tent in his braies, and Lancelot swallows nervously when he sees it, but calms down a bit when no indication comes that he has to do anything with it. No matter how curious he feels, fingers itching to reach out first, it is just too intimidating right now.

It is already plenty unnerving to be laid out like this, and the worry spikes more when his foot is caught and tugged closer. With a soft creak of the bed, Gawain shifts to get more comfortable; when Lancelot looks up, he meets his gaze and holds it unblinkingly while he tugs his shoe off and drops it to the floor. Slowly, he lowers his foot but does not let go of it, sliding his fingers up and hooking them under the thin leather belt of the garter. 

When they brush at the clasp, unbuckling it deftly and laying the belt aside, Lancelot can’t help a sharp inhale. Pinned under the heavy green gaze that he feels even though he no longer holds it, eyes drawn instead to how Gawain slowly unravels the linen wrapped around his foot, he watches, breaths coming faster and fists clenching the coverlet tight. 

With the other foot, it is already a bit less scary, but the gentle caress when the second belt is tugged off sends his heart racing even faster. Swallowing his hesitation, Lancelot lets the curiosity take the reins, and angles his leg a bit to help along. He is rewarded by the quiet hum, and a thrilling small kiss to the sensitive spot on his knee.

Inhaling sharply, he bites his lip and scoots a bit closer. Eyes fixed on where the last strip of linen falls to the bed, leaving him free, he tentatively wiggles his bare toes when they are captured in a warm, broad palm.

A wry smile tugs at the corner of Gawain’s mouth when he slides his fingers up and down over the ankle joint in a feather-light touch, before digging them a bit deeper into the sole. It is painful, but so,  _ so  _ good, that Lancelot moans softly, squeezing his eyes shut, his knee jerking when he first tries to pull away and then pushes back, asking for more.

After that, he cannot focus on lingering traces of fear long enough, not with the way the knight caresses every inch of him. His palms are running up and down, truly mapping out his body, just as he promised. Basking in the soft but firm pressure of them, the pleasure sharpened by quick, hungry kisses to his shoulders and stomach, Lancelot throws his head back and swallows, taking a breath as he arches up. If he avoids looking at his own chest, there seems to be nothing that can ruin such bliss.

When, with a soft whisper of fabric, Gawain gets rid of the last of his own clothes, Lancelot just tenses a bit, but does not draw away. It gets in the way of pulling the man closer, but otherwise it does not seem to do anything to him, except laying there, warm and hard. 

It can stay, he decides, politely ignoring it for the time being in favour of hiding his face into the knight’s shoulder and breathing in deeply.

However, when Gawain’s hands drop to the lacing of his trousers, Lancelot suddenly and with great clarity realises he has not thought that through. Unfortunately, where he would have usually kicked the person right in their nether regions, now he is struck silent and frozen in place, only able to tighten his grip on the bedsheets.

The garment is slowly pulled down to reveal his pale, scarred skin, and then discarded to the side. When he sees Gawain cast a quick look at the long thin lines of scars running along his inner thighs, Lancelot stiffens, readying himself for the questions. But none come—after a short pause, the knight simply presses his lips to one of them, slow and chaste, closes his eyes for a moment, and then draws back.

Hooking his fingers into the hem of his braies, Gawain pauses, meeting his eyes. Slowly, he peels the fabric off, gently urging him to lift his hips to take it off completely. His stomach clenches painfully, the sucking, tickling shame flooding it, but Lancelot pushes it down. With a shaky inhale, he lets his bare legs be gently pushed apart. 

The sweet, musky scent surges, making him flush. He is sure Gawain can feel it, too, judging by the way his nostrils flare for a moment as he leans back. His eyes are slightly unfocused, as if he makes an effort not to look anywhere in particular, before they lift to settle on Lancelot’s face. Giving him a small, warm grin, Gawain puts away the last piece that was separating them. 

As Lancelot swallows thickly and lifts his chin, he is all too aware of how their scents are mingling now, heady and pleasant, undoing his resolve. He shivers, again, but this time the root of it is far from fear.

Breathless, he clutches at the coverlet and watches nervously from under the curls falling over his eyes. After sparing a single brief glance between his legs, Gawain looks up, meeting his gaze. Slowly, he crawls up, a slightly predatory edge to his movement as he presses closer.

They are intertwined together in a lock that reminds him of how they fight, only there it is a fleeting moment, while here it is frozen, magnified, blown out of proportion with the extent he is being touched and bared — he is never that vulnerable for longer than a blink of an eye.

If Gawain notices his distress, he doesn’t acknowledge it, the unhurried, thorough flow of kisses and bites down his body not faltering. At least it is so at first, until he slides down and on another kiss, this one near his hip, Lancelot makes a small, nervous sound. 

At once, the knight’s eyes snap up to him, and he pauses. “I promised you we won’t do anything you’re not ready for.”

“But… What’s there to do then?”

“Well,” Gawain chuckles, his grin growing wider. “Let me show you.”

\---

With a sharp inhale that trails into another moan, Lancelot presses back into the bed. He can’t utter a word, but Gawain understands, pulling away and raising up to hover over him, his arms caging Lancelot in.

Dazed and warm, he just tilts his head and blinks slowly, watching the knight smile, his wet red mouth curving into a cheeky smile.

“So? Enlightening, isn’t it?” He breathes out, and Lancelot shoves at him weakly with one hand, before letting it fall to the bed.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is a couple of paragraphs in the original version that would have increased the rating to explicit, so I left them out, but if you are interested, drop me a line, I can share the doc.  
> Chapter title from The Amazing Devil – Wild Blue Yonder.  
> Thank you, Saighin, SuperLizard & Valerin, for giving it a read-through <3


	6. detect my sudden existence on your sonar

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Warnings: mild bullying & self-harm.  
> Chapter title from Vienna Teng - Never Look Away ([youtube](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NWJE52G6mXo))

The cautious creak of the wood tears Lancelot out of the embrace of sleep. 

His eyelids are heavy as lead, barely cracking open enough for him to try and blink the daze away as he reluctantly returns to the real world. The swaths of old red velvet draped above his head are so unfamiliar they stun him into just staring at them as he tries to calculate where he is—and whether he is supposed to do anything.

Despite the alarming change from the usual ceiling he sees when waking up, he does not feel in any real hurry. It would be wonderful to just hide here, in this borderline state of floating haze, for a moment longer. Someone warm and solid is laying next to him, close enough to feel the suggestion of their shape, the space their body occupies. To his foggy mind that thought sings like a merry little bird, soft and comforting.

Then someone unseen clears their throat quietly but very pointedly and, at once, the calm shatters. 

There is only one person Lancelot knows who can make a sound like that. 

His mind is alert in a blink, but his body lags behind, an unwieldy, slow thing, and it refuses to heed his command. Twisting to his side awkwardly, he meets Kaze’s eyes and freezes like a rabbit, heart hammering in his chest. 

A short pause is fraught and suffocating.

“Good morning, I guess,” she says, at last, her voice brimming with barely restrained mirth he sees betrayed in a twitch of a small smile as well.

Stunned into silence, he clutches the furs tighter to his chest, as if it can cover his heart’s madly quick drumming. His eyes flicker to the side where Gawain stirs, blissfully unaware of the impending doom, which Kaze undoubtedly embodies.

She still has not said another word, and the silence between them makes his skin crawl with shame, hot and blinding as it closes around his throat, prickles at his eyes and cheeks. Scrambling up, Lancelot accidentally hits Gawain in the side; then does it again on purpose, to make him wake up, too, and at least share with him this humiliation.

Keeping her face impassive, Kaze tilts her head just the slightest. The gesture is enough to convey the magnitudes of disapproval that make Lancelot want to burst into flames. Sucking a sharp intake of breath, he tries to speak, but it is as if his tongue has woven itself in a knot, just like his insides did.

It is unclear anyway, though, what he can say; there is no way to deny the obvious. Kaze seems to be of the same mind, as she does not bother asking what she already knows the answer to. For a short while, they simply stare at each other. 

“I can turn around if you want. Though I doubt it is needed—unless you’ve grown something I haven’t seen on the last bath day,” she says in the same mild tone, a barely noticeable smirk ticking the corner of her full lips up.

Gathering his courage, Lancelot shakes his head. He is, actually, dressed, even if it is only a shirt and braies. Slowly, still holding her gaze, he throws the furs off and then bends over, feeling with his hand for the boots that have been discarded somewhere near the bed. 

Something shifts in Kaze’s face, softens the sharp angle of it. When she speaks again, her voice is quieter and gentler.

“Are you alright?”

Taken aback, Lancelot blinks at her owlishly, the second boot half-tugged on his foot. 

Before he can reply, the voices sound from the hallway, approaching the door. He recognises the louder of them as Arthur, and then the lilting cheerful one as Pym. Judging by how her eyes flit to the half-open door, Kaze hears them, too. 

When she glances back at him, and their eyes meet for a heartbeat, Lancelot is positive that his heart will leap out of his throat. Then at least he would be spared the embarrassment, but the gods are cruel — he survives, left watching Kaze march towards the door with the determined gait of an executioner.

With a soft sound that a dying deer might make, he flings himself up, frantically looking at the window. It is too high for him to jump out of it. Doesn’t matter, anyway, Kaze is not the type to lie to save anyone their bruised pride, especially for such foolish reasons as falling prey to someone’s charms…

Slipping into the crack of the half-open door, Kaze shuts it close, cutting the voices off and leaving Lancelot to stare at it in mute bewilderment. Judging by the soft rustle of fabric and cling of wood against wood but no sound of footsteps, she is now leaning against the other side.

“Oh, Kaze, good morning!” Arthur greets in that fake chirpy voice of an early riser who had to train himself to do it but now secretly enjoys using it as a foolproof way to piss people off. “Not so good for Gawain, I gather? How bad is it?”

“Trust me, you don’t want to see it,” Kaze replies smoothly. “It’s… nasty. Outright nasty. I regret that I came in.” 

“Really?” Arthur slowly asks, sounding outright intrigued. A short pause follows, which, Lancelot imagines, might be filled with more curious looks than judging. Gawain has this effect on people. 

Just now, the man in question shifts behind him, flinging his arm across the empty space Lancelot occupied a moment ago; a faint frown touches his brow when he finds it empty. It makes Lancelot’s heart clench in a way he does not have the capacity to acknowledge, not when he silently buckles his garters, glancing between the knight and the door.

“There is a cock in a cage,” Kaze’s voice sounds again, and Lancelot frowns, unsure of what to make out of it.

It’s muffled, but it sounds distinctly as if Arthur has just choked on something. Slowly, very slowly as not to make the smallest sound, Lancelot tugs on his trousers and reaches for his belt.

Pym speaks, her voice brimming with confusion. “What does he need a cock for? In his bedroom? Isn’t it… unhygienic?”

“... that’s a good question, Pym, but I don’t think that’s what Kaze meant,” Arthur remarks gently. He sounds almost apologetic. 

“Give him a moment,” Kaze adds.

Now it is time for Lancelot, who has finally caught up on the meaning, to choke on nothing. He manages to do it silently, but the suffering is there. Even though Kaze seems to for some reason protect him, she sure does not extend the grace to Gawain.

The statement is met with vague noises of disgust; Pym is especially outspoken, making an exaggerated gagging sound. Arthur limits himself to a click in the back of his throat. Given the rumours circulating the living quarters—and the dining hall, and the armoury, and the baths—Lancelot figures he is the last to judge anyone for their quirks.

According to the soft outraged squawk from behind him, Gawain agrees.

“What the fuck?” he mutters, which is the first thing he has said this morning.

Lancelot is filled with vindictive glee that at least he is not the only one to start the day in a truly horrendous way. When he flickers his gaze to Gawain, the green eyes are not yet fully awake, but already narrowed, dishevelled auburn hair falling over them but not covering the displeased glare.

“It’s all your fault,” Lancelot observes darkly, tugging off his shirt to redo the wrappings around his chest. His stomach tightens with the uncomfortable feeling of being watched when vulnerable like that, but he mercilessly pushes the shame down, because now is not the fucking time.

“What is?”

“Everything,” Lancelot mutters under his breath, tucking the end of the linen strap in roughly and sniffling. “Every-fucking-thing.”

Frowning, Gawain flings off the fur and rolls out of bed, leaping to his feet. Unlike him, he is stark naked and absolutely unbothered by the fact, so Lancelot has to close his eyes for a moment in mortification, feeling his cheeks flare up like mayday bonfires. If the morning continues in a similar fashion and he miraculously survives this entire encounter, his face will still surely turn to ash.

Crossing the room in several silent, wide strides to lean against the door, Gawain folds his arms, listens in for a moment, his frown deepening, then scoffs angrily. Walking back a couple of steps, he stops and narrows his eyes again, a familiar mulish look making his features rougher.

“I am really sorry for this,” he mutters to Lancelot, who does not answer, too busy trying to figure out what to do with the fact that his shirt is still smudged with charcoal from their first encounter yesterday.

He can feel Gawain’s gaze linger on him for a moment longer before it returns to the door.

“Kaze,” he calls out loudly. “Mind giving me a hand here?”

The soft mutterings from the other side of the door stop abruptly.

“Oh! So he is awake?” Pym exclaims, then raises her voice. “Just come out already, it’s nearly noon! Or Cora will make sure there is nothing to put in a cage.”

“Yes, the council is out for blood,” Arthur adds in what he probably thinks is his friendly voice. “Cora looks like she is going to have an aneurysm if she doesn’t find you in the next five minutes.”

From the look on Gawain’s face, he is tempted to let it happen—but then he sets his jaw resolutely and rounds his shoulders.

“I would be delighted to attend to my duties,” he replies, his voice dripping with venom. “If only Kaze would unchain me from the bed.”

The silence returns.

“I carry a spare key. It comes in handy more often than you think,” Kaze says calmly, and then the door opens, letting her in.

When she throws him a questioning glance, Lancelot gives a short nod. He is fully dressed now, even though he has nearly ripped the rest of the stitches on his shirt by diving into it at such speed. 

“Hide,” Gawain throws over his shoulder to Lancelot, who, for once, obeys without a thought. Pressing himself into the wall that he has figured has the least chance of being accidentally overlooked even if someone glances inside, he watches with wary eyes how Gawain crosses the distance and yanks the door open.

There is a moment of stunned silence.

“Oh,” Pym breathes out. “There is… no cage.”

“No,” Gawain confirms dryly. 

The silence stretches some more before Arthur clears his throat. 

“So, uh, we will see you at lunch?”

“Unfortunately,” Gawain answers grimly, crossing his arms and leaning his hip on the wall. “Pym, you’re staring.”

“Well, yes,” the girl replies, not sounding even remotely ashamed. “But that’s… such a monumental—revelation...”

“Just for that, get out. Kaze, you too.”

Throwing a furtive look at him, the woman gives a curt nod and joins the others.

The door closes with a resounding, final thud, and Lancelot tenses at the loud sound. Frowning, Gawain turns around and finally, finally grabs his trousers, tugging them on roughly. 

“Gods, that’s not how I imagined our first morning will be,” he mutters, yanking at the laces with too much force. “I am really sorry about that.”

Slowly letting go off the wall, Lancelot takes a step further, shoulders hunched and weight drawn up in a way that makes him ready to pounce. He feels cornered, and, judging by the way Gawain slows down when he looks up at him, does a piss poor job of hiding the fact. 

“Are you alright?” His demeanour is all cautious, silent observation, as he sometimes gets when they fight and he cannot quite predict what is on Lancelot’s mind. Right now, it must be even harder for him than usual, since Lancelot himself has no idea of what is going on in his head.

His chest is cleaved in half, and he can barely draw a breath, the silent, unbearable torture of wanting to take a step forward and bury his face in this chest, hide in it from the world. This weakness will cost him more than he can afford, he knows that, but the pull is so strong that resistance takes all of his strength.

“What am I to say to them?” he asks, barely audibly, because that’s a pragmatic thing to ask with an answer that might spare them both future embarrassment. 

“You can tell them you’ve been sent out for scouting—Kaze and I will handle the details,” Gawain suggests calmly, as he straightens and cocks his head to the side. “Or you can tell them the truth.”

“The truth?” Lancelot prompts because he is not sure he knows what it is right now. 

“That you were with me,” Gawain replies, taking a step closer. “That you came to me—you can say I found you if it feels better.”

“Then it won’t be the truth anymore if it feels better,” he argues, watching with resignation how Gawain takes another step. He does it as slow as if he creeps over the rustling leaves on a hunt, the motions crisp and careful as he signals their trajectory to him. Rooted in the place, Lancelot can only watch how it converges to him until Gawain stands right in front of him.

“Is it so?” he asks softly, not raising a hand to touch him, yet it feels as if the sheer warmth he radiates is enough to bridge that distance between them, fuse them together. “So what—the truth is never pleasant?”

“No,” Lancelot murmurs, feeling his arm cramp with the effort it takes to restrain it. It is as if he is a man possessed, driven by the ghost that demands he lifts his hand and dips his fingers into the deep, still waters that is Gawain. It would have been a comforting lie, but he kind of finished telling himself those half a year ago. The yearning is all his, every drop of it. “Never.”

“You lied then, when you came last night?”

A faint frown tugging at his brows, Lancelot shakes his head. His mouth is dry, and the cold from the other side of the door seeps into his side, reminds him of the hostile world outside. “No.”

“What you felt then—when you smiled at me, called my name,  _ moaned  _ it—was it a lie, Lancelot?”

Giving himself up to the impulse he feels rising and growing stronger as if it is indeed some natural force, wind and sea current, Lancelot raises his hand. With his breath caught in his throat, he presses it gingerly over the darker skin before looking up.

“No,” he replies, low but clear, holding the green gaze unblinkingly as if it is a lighthouse beacon he steers the untruly boats towards through the tumultuous waters of his doubt. “No, it wasn’t.”

“See,” Gawain murmurs, pressing their foreheads together, his thumb brushing over his cheek in a tender and chaste caress. “The truth can be sweet, and it can be simple. The truth is that you want me and so you come to me. Nothing less—and,” he pauses, drawing back just enough to look him in the eye, his hand still lingering, “—nothing more, unless you want it.”

Lancelot is silent for a moment that is not as long as it feels. The din of the castle reaches his ears, the dark, warm belly of it rumbling with the voices of its dwellers, and he admits distantly it’s time for this strange scene to come to an end, to let go of Gawain and leave his enchanted kingdom, return to the drafty winding hallways.

No matter how much Gawain says he does not possess an ounce of magical talents, he must be lying about that, at least, because when he speaks again, it is as if he has picked up the thread of thought right from Lancelot’s head.

“I have to go,” he says, quiet and serious. “But I will find you in the afternoon, when I am done, alright? Don’t fret — I just want to show you something.”

Swallowing dryly, Lancelot nods, tightening his grip on the palm still cradling his cheek — either to pry it away or press it closer, he does not know himself.

“I will be there,” he hears himself saying. “I mean—at training. As usual.”

He does not know why he has said it. It is not like he has many other places to be.

With a curt nod, Gawain steps back. His eyes do not leave Lancelot’s face, green and strangely ancient, but he does not utter another word. He is still half-naked, but for some reason, Lancelot feels as if he is the one left bare now. 

His gaze drifts absently on the lettered scars scattered over the muscles. In the dim light of the winter sun shrouded by the clouds as if it, too, does not want to wake up and face the world, the skin is not as unbearably golden as it was in the candlelight. Lancelot finds he admires those muted colours, too. They are closer to the chalk sketches he can try to preserve those lines in, more subdued and intimate than the blinding glory of seeing someone who throws how open he is in people’s eyes to distract them from the fact that he has not shown even a glimpse of what is inside.

Drawing a deep inhale, Lancelot gives a short nod and turns on his heel, slipping out of the door. The sound of it closing is quiet, but it tugs on a heavy knot of worry in his head, tangles it tighter. 

When he walks back, the hallways are empty, most of the castle dwellers gathered in the dining hall. His mind is empty, too, and so is his gut. He feels like a stray cat that has been given a plate of milk and cradled for a while before being let out back into the streets to stumble, disoriented and even more hungry.

He has never before known how empty a vessel can feel after you saw it brimming over.

\---

When Lancelot gets back to the women’s quarters, the numbness has blessedly spread over his entire chest, dulling the sharp ache of separation that cleaves it in half. It has no right to feel so acute, to saw through the bone and the tendons like a serrated blade of a bonesetter. 

Sighing and rubbing his forehead with one hand, he fishes out the key to his room. It does not fit. At first, he is tempted to just push harder, but then he realises it is his old room. With a muffled swear, he turns around and marches to the end of the hallway.

Just as he is opening the right door, someone steps out of the opposite room in a cloud of sweet perfume and rustling fabric. At once, he recognises the cloying substance, and his heart falls. When he looks up from yanking a key out — it jams a bit — he sees that, indeed, it is Elaine herself. 

“Lancelot,” she says, her mouth cringing around his name as if she has bitten into an unripe apple. “Good morning—or shall I say noon?”

“Good day,” he replies curtly, lowering his eyes again and trying to sneak into his room before any further conversation follows, but before he can do so, her voice sounds again, forcing him to stop in the doorway.

“Why is your shirt all black, gloomy girl?” she drawls, intonation falling and rising in the grating way that makes Lancelot want to bare his teeth and cover his ears. “Have you set your bed on fire again and been sleeping in ashes?”

He doesn’t reply, but as he crosses his room, every exhale is a bit more forceful, pushing its way out of his lungs with too much effort. His gestures turn too rough, too, as he silently goes through the gear, checking whether everything is in its place. 

For the first time in a while, he does not feel like going out in the cold to train. But the routine gives him an excuse to ignore Elaine as she studies him from the doorway, leaning against the wall and tapping her foot.

“Wait—Gawain visited yesterday,” she narrows her eyes, and then they lit up with malicious glee, the green flicker of flame in the cold, snakelike slit. “And rumour has it, he ordered to have this room for you… One might wonder why...”

“One can go ask him,” Lancelot replies curtly, but he knows it is a losing game because the woman gives him a meaningful glance and smirks, tutting her tongue. The weight of her stare on him is so tangible that he jerks his shoulder without a thought, trying to dislodge it.

It is a mistake. When Elaine grins, it is a snarl of a wolf who has smelled blood.

“So, I guess it is true then—he has developed some exotic tastes...” she starts, and he has to close his eyes to calm down the fire raging in his chest. It is the one that glows with blackness instead of light, and he can feel the darkness it brings flood his mind. He is fully aware he can never touch anyone here—not because of any morality but because he has nowhere to go and he is on thin ice as it is, with his history—but gods, does he want to—

“... cannot imagine what he sees in you. He has a soft heart for feral strays, I suppose. The unrefined roughness must be thrilling for a bit...”—to close his hands around that alabaster throat, how sweet that sounds, much sweeter than the voice that streams from it—

“... I am quite curious, actually—do you also pretend in bed?”

“Elaine?” Someone says from the door. “Shut up.”

Startled, Lancelot looks up from the table to see Pym appear in the doorway as well, breathing anger as if she is a fury, the flaming red of her hair framing her thunderous scowl. The always laughing corners of her mouth are turned downcast, and the striking contrast makes him tense — he has never seen her quite so angry.

“I was not aware that telling the truth was prohibited?” Elaine replies with feigned confusion, arching her eyebrow, but her eyes are too cold and hardened for it to look remotely genuine. It does not seem to be the goal, though.

Pym does not even acknowledge her words as she shoulders past her to step in. Her eyes flicker between them, lingering on the treacherous dark smudges on his back, before settling on the ones under his eyes. The inspection only lasts a moment before she turns to stand between him and Elaine, her arms folded and chin raised high.

“We both know telling the truth is not what you are doing here,” she frowns at the other woman, making Lancelot look up again. Her head barely reaches just under his chin, but right now he is a shadow in the corner while her presence takes up the entire room, flaming and bright. “Mind your own business—and stop being so pathetically envious.”

Elaine lets out a peal of laughter that scatters like fake pearls, but there is a flicker of wariness in her eyes. “Me? Envious? Of this… oddity?”

“Lancelot,” Pym says, clear and calm, but the warning in her voice is glaringly apparent, “is not an oddity. She is different from the rest of you—which is precisely why Gawain is courting her. I imagine he is tired of the likes of you pouring the love potions into his cup.”

The arrogant smirk is gone in a blink — like the gust of wind has snuffled out the candle. The way all the colour drains out of Elaine’s face is a balm on Lancelot’s bruised pride, the subtle dubs of rouge on her cheeks now standing out in ugly ruddy spots.

“How do you know?” she whispers, her voice trembling with anguished anger, dainty—or so she likes to think—hands curling into tight fists.

“I didn’t,” Pym admits, shrugging with one shoulder, and then continues, ignoring how Elaine flinches as if slapped and huffs in frustration. “But thank you for the confirmation. Now, shoo,” she continues, supporting her words with a flick of her wrist. “Be a good girl, go attend to your duties—and while you work, pray that I don’t tell Gawain about any of this.” 

It is a distant feeling, but Lancelot is mildly impressed to see how Elaine, so obviously defeated, tries to pull herself together. It is what he imagines witnessing a shipwreck is like, the stern still above the water but already doomed.

Straightening the folds of her skirt with sweaty palms — he can feel the faint smell of it, an unpleasant sharp tone under her cloyingly sweet perfume — she straightens and lifts her chin.

“And who are you to tell me what to do?” she tries, puffing up her chest and narrowing her gaze, but Pym just huffs in amusement.

“Oh, I am no one,” she says, deadly calm. “Just a healer apprentice.”

Something about the way she says it sends a shiver down Lancelot’s spine and, for the first time since he has met her, a stumbling, arm-flailing mess with a high-pitched voice, he takes an opportunity to adjust his opinion. Right now, he can only see her back, but even that is different — it’s like her spine is made of flexible steel, a silent challenge in the way she holds herself. 

Elaine, as usual, as either too slow or too wilfully oblivious to take a hint.

“So?” she frowns.

Pym’s voice colours with just a hint of amusement as she explains: “So I, too, have access to a lot of interesting potions.”

If he has thought that Elaine was pale before, it is nothing compared to how ghostly white she turns now, her carmine mouth hanging slightly open. It takes her a moment to find her voice again.

“Are you threatening to poison me?” she chokes out. “Because of this—freak?”

“Gods, I envy your vivid imagination, Elaine,” Pym drawls, turning around — and now Lancelot can see the corners of her mouth trembling in a smile that does not quite reach her eyes. It is a startlingly familiar expression. “In truth, before you called her that, I was just going to make your day unbearable with some daffodils. But now...”

Her nostrils flaring and eyes going wide, Elaine presses her lips into a tight line. The scent of fear and anger has almost overwhelmed the perfume she is wearing, and Lancelot cannot help but shift slightly, drawing back.

“We both know Gawain will be done with his new toy in a week,” she hisses, every word dripping with vitriol as she points the finger at the redhead, who simply lifts her brows. “This is not over, Pym.”

Throwing him one last withering glare, she turns on her heel and marches off, her skirts swinging violently with every step, a tumultuous sea of fabric. Hands still pressed to the table, Lancelot watches her go in silence, and so does Pym, right until they see her stumble over a broom someone has left laying on the floor.

With an unimpressed raise of her brows, Pym steps forward and shuts the door, cutting off the shrieks and the curses. The silence falls over the room like a blanket. When Lancelot, at last, meets her eyes, he holds her gaze unwaveringly, despite the suckling feeling of worry in his stomach.

“Don’t mind them,” she says so gently it sounds almost like a plea. “And—I am sorry. They are just jealous. Don’t let this get to you, alright?” She worries her bottom lip with her sharp teeth for a moment, a worried frown crossing her brow. “Will you stop seeing Gawain because of what she said?”

Flicking a sheathed dagger from one hand to the other, Lancelot scoffs.  _ In their dreams _ , he thinks.

“No,” he replies in a hushed voice, shaking his head. “I have plenty of experience enduring idiots and their ideas on how I shall act.”

Patting him on the shoulder — a bit awkwardly, but without any fear staining her flowery scent — Pym nods eagerly. “That’s the spirit.”

Even if he knew what to answer, Lancelot is not sure he would. He cannot wait to be left alone, craving solitude with the intensity that erases any coherent thought from his head. To his relief, Pym seems to pick up on it. With a soft cough, she draws her hand away.

“If you want to talk about it, you know where to find me,” she mutters and, after he gives a stiff nod, turns around, heading for the door.

Before she can leave, he calls out for her, catching her just on the threshold of his room. It is quiet, but she stops dead in her tracks, her spine almost painfully stiff.

“Why did you call me that?” he wonders. “You didn’t use to.”

Her face turned half-way to him, Pym hesitates, a slight furrow of her brow echoing with a dull tug in his stomach, the betrayal laying heavy in it like a cold ember. She looks so uncomfortable that he would have felt bad for asking her, if only he had any strength left to feel anything at all.

“Lancelot,” she winces a bit, hand lingering on the door handle. “It… might be better for you to get used to it.”

Not bothering to reply, he turns away and tries to remember what he had to do. The door shuts so quietly he barely catches the sound—but only then he allows himself to sniffle, roughly wiping his nose with the back of his hand. 

His head is filled with ringing, buzzing silence. Shaking it in a vain attempt to get rid of it as one would of a wasp, he leans back onto the table and tries to collect his chaotic thoughts. The gear bag lays at his hand, but he only spares it a cursory glance. 

His eyes keep straying to the cross that lays on the table, the faint silver gleam of it standing out starkly against the dark wood. Unbeknownst to anyone, he still wears its damning, soothing weight on his chest, the whisper of it smothered by the straps of linen it is hidden between.

Last night, before leaving to run to Gawain, he left it behind. He did not even bother to hide it properly, and it is a small miracle no one has found it or noticed now.

Snatching it up, he stares at it for a moment longer, before squeezing it tightly in his hand. The sharp corners dig into his palm, and the voices in his mind swell, the chorus of dark whispers demanding his attention. 

He drops the cross as if it burns his hand and swirls around, walking in jerky, fast steps towards the closed door, but slows down once he is close enough to open it. Raising his hand, he trails his fingertips down the rough wood, down to the lock. The whispers crowd his mind and, distracted by them, he watches as if from afar how his fingers slide the bolt home.

The heavy feeling does not disappear, but it redistributes, shifting from his chest to something outside him. He is still tethered to it, still helpless against the impulse to flit around the room, almost running, his feet barely touching the floor. It feels as if there is a place where is supposed to step, and a place he has to avoid, but he cannot focus enough to understand which one is which, even though it feels imperative that he does.

That feeling of being caught on the crossroads leaves him breathless and reeling like a punch to the gut. A choked, quiet whimper escapes his throat when he stops next to the table; he bites into his own wrist to calm it down. But the indents on his skin only hold his attention for the space between two heartbeats before he decides he does not want to see them anymore and averts his eyes. 

Wrapping his arms around himself, Lancelot rakes his nails up and down the forearms, as he stares at the silver cross that seems to look back at him. With one hesitant hand, he reaches out to pick it up again, letting it dangle from his fingers, the delicate links of the chain running down his knuckles like silvery water.

It is a silent accusation. With a strained, obscene swear, he throws it to the side and buries both hands in his hair, tugging at the curls roughly until the sting calms him down enough to take a breath. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees blood smear his wrist — his nails must have broken the skin.

Everything burns: the black on his back, the black under his eyes, the black in his head. He can’t take it anymore, he is losing this fight again.

The words he wants to use to reason with himself do not even get a chance to emerge in his mind before they are swept under the overwhelming, suffocating pressure of the air around him. It crumples his body as if it is made of fragile, dry wood, the angles of it breaking awkwardly as the unseen weight brings him down to his knees.

Twisting to his side with one arm still wrapped around his midriff as if to stop himself from spilling over the floor like unravelled yarn, he manages to awkwardly pull himself up to the wooden chest standing at the feet of the bed. The lid clunks loudly when he throws it up.

With clumsy fingers, numb and white from the cold, he pries the hidden compartment open and pulls out a small blade, barely longer than his palm. The hilt is slightly warped from the heat, ripples in the steel.

His breath coming in small pants, Lancelot holds the knife over his other hand, the green flickering in its polished surface. He is not so stupid as to give himself a blood infection. He just wants the noise gone. 

It is not the easiest thing to do, to slash his own skin open. His stubborn body refuses to hurt itself, softening the angles and coiling away from even that little pain, utterly unwilling to be exposed to any more. He chases it stubbornly, settling with his back leaning against the bed as he watches the angry lines swell on his arm.

It is working already. Tossing his head back, Lancelot pauses for a moment, sucks some air in, listens to his heart hammer in his chest. When he glances back at the pale skin crossed by raw red, he tells himself it is just another parchment. It goes easier then if he holds onto that thought when raising his knife again.

When the first crimson droplet swells, he almost laughs, giddy and relieved. The buzzing darkness recedes with every gash until all that is left is hollow, sweetly aching emptiness in his head and chest. Barking out a laugh, he drops the knife to the side and pulls his knees up, burying his head between them, relishing in the faint sting on his shoulder.

His palms pressed into the floor, Lancelot arches up, exacerbating the convulsion that runs through his entire body, stretching it taut until the tension pain along his spine subsides. It rolls over him like a wave, leaving in its wake something more solid, more capable of going on, as if he has swapped places with some creature summoned by the little blood offering.

With a heavy exhale, he pushes himself up, swaying but managing to stand straight. On his way to the table, he finds and picks up the cross, pushes it carelessly under the linen. His eyes find the gear bag again, but he hesitates, catching his breath. Something is still slightly off, and he feels too light-headed to seriously consider going for sword practice right now.

His stomach grumbles in a clear, unambiguous reply. Pressing one hand to it, Lancelot winces and reaches out with the other for the clean linen to dab to the cuts.

\---

Practically alone in the dining hall save for a couple of disoriented moonwings, Lancelot eats his late breakfast in hushed silence. Usually, it would have been a blessing, but now, with all the thoughts and feelings bleeding into the quiet and taking hold there, he is not so sure. He is late for training, late for everything, suddenly finds himself with free time on his hands that feels stolen, and that vague afternoon hour when Gawain was supposed to find him is looming closer and closer.

He feels a bit like a ghost hovering over his own body as it moves the spoon. He watches it warily, waiting for a sign of his depravity to show, for any inclination for further undignified acts to emerge. 

Nothing happens. The body is happy, sated and a bit tired. 

Latching onto its disgusting weakness, he decides to practice footwork in the biting cold of the outside yard today and not in one of the training halls. That will make sure he doesn’t forget he is supposed to be miserable. 

Gawain was just having fun. That’s it. 

The body slows down, then puts the spoon away. It feels sick. When he tries to tell it to finish, it reacts with a sensation that is best translated as  _ fuck off. _

Lancelot is also not thrilled by the thought, but it is better to be honest with himself. The dim grey light of winter afternoon suddenly paints everything in less than pleasant colours. He feels equally cold and grey himself, every breath coming too shallow.

With a vague noise of disgust, he pushes himself off the bench, unable to take more of this pathetic self-pity. Snatching the half-full bowl with one hand, he carries it out of the hall, striding down the hallway in wide steps.

It is a short way down, then a brief clash with cold wind biting into his skin as he marches across the yard, and then he is greeted with the sweet odour of hay and manure. The stable door creaks slightly when he flings it open.

“Do you want it?” he inquires, lifting the bowl.

Head bowed low and ears laid flat, Goliath considers it for a moment, then takes a small step back. His long, thick mane sways with the movement, muscles rolling under the shiny coat. At least one of them is doing well.

“Perfect,” Lancelot breathes out angrily, lowering the bowl. “I’ll go ask the birds, then.”

Behind him, hay rustles softly, and when he spins around, a stable boy stares at him with wide, wary eyes. He looks a bit dazed and a lot like he is trying to understand whether he is still dreaming or not.

“Not a word,” Lancelot threatens under his breath, waits until the boy gives an anxious nod, and leaves for the tower where he has been feeding the ravens every now and then. Fuck the training, he thinks, climbing the stairs, and fuck the gossip, and fuck the way his body seems to think it is owed any more warmth from now on. Fuck everything.


	7. inget av det här är logiskt

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The chapter title is from Veronica Maggio - 5 minuter, it is in Swedish, means "None of this is logical". Thank you, Val, for the song, the cadence of your language is mesmerising ❤️  
> The alternative title was "here be dragons" :D

In the end, it is he who finds Gawain in the afternoon, and not the other way around. Seeking him out, though, is hardly a problem — predictably, he is in his study. When he emerges from it and almost walks into Lancelot, there is a moment’s confusion before his face lights up.

Taking a deep breath in, Lancelot opens his mouth to proudly declare the terms, only to find himself caught in a kiss. Immediately, all the words fly out of his head, a buzzing thrill shooting through his entire body, and before he realises it is happening, he is pressed into a wall and clinging for his dear life.

He is mildly surprised, and then he is furious.

Pushing Gawain off, he wipes his mouth with the back of his hand. It tingles. He wants to lick it, and scratch it, and he wants to be kissed again.

“Wait,” he says, breathing heavily. “Wait, I was going to say—”

Another kiss comes like a tidal wave, crushing over him and tearing his resolve apart. Just like a wave, it is blinding, and it leaves him breathless. Fool that he is, he opens his mouth, lets it flood his head, swallows it greedily, muffling everything but the drumming of blood in his ears. Only when it has rolled over him, he opens his eyes and surges up, gasping for air.

“Yes?” Gawain murmurs, radiating warmth and calm, unchallenged confidence. “You were going to say..?”

Blinking rapidly, Lancelot breathes out, deflating in an instant. The solid, firm curve of the knight’s shoulders shields him from the world and gives him something to lean onto — with a jolt, he drops his hands. From under the veil of his eyelashes, he can see Gawain shift, taking a small step back. 

“Nevermind,” he mutters under his breath, smoothing his palms over the tunic, before he finds the strength to look up, figuring it should be safe now. “I—are you—are you done..?”

He has severely miscalculated. The laughing, bright green eyes make his breath hitch, sweet ache spreading in his chest, compelling him to meet it half-way. A far-away voice in his head remarks it is a bad idea. Not disagreeing with it, Lancelot shifts a bit closer, earning himself a wry smile.

“With you?” Gawain says softly, tilting his head just as he reaches out to brush his thumb over the corner of Lancelot’s mouth. “No.”

Squeezing his eyes shut, Lancelot takes a deep breath and tries to coax his hammering heart into calming down.

“With,” he croaks out, curling his hands into fists to stop them from betraying his excitement. “—work. With work.”

When Gawain sighs and draws back, it is like a spell is dissolved, the tendrils of his attention called back.

“Unfortunately, also no,” he admits, reaching out to take his hands, rubbing soothing circles into his wrists and smoothing up, a pleasant shiver running down Lancelot’s spine at the caress. “But soon. Do you want to come in already, warm up a bit? It’s just Kaze in there.”

Giving a small nod, Lancelot mentally slaps himself for agreeing, and, to distract himself, focuses on the situation. “Why is Kaze there..?”

“To practice Englisc. Apparently, she is dissatisfied with her accent,” Gawain sing-songs, a bit louder, and then grins when a long, elaborate string of curses comes from behind the half-open door of the study.

“I am dissatisfied with your language!” Kaze calls out. “Why the hell do you pronounce the same letter in five different ways depending on where it goes?”

“Because it helps to weed out foreign spies like you,” Gawain replies happily, before turning and drawing him inside. His hand caught in a gentle, firm grip, Lancelot follows, and the half-hearted protest dies on his lips when he steps into the heated, cosy room.

Her feet propped on the desk and face set in a dark scowl, Kaze gives them a curt nod. She is chewing on the tip of a quill, scrunching her nose just like an annoyed cat would. A heavy book with tattered, old pages lays open on her lap. Trembling a bit, Lancelot barely has time to open his mouth to apologise for the morning, before she points the quill at him.

“I haven’t seen you at training today,” she informs him, and the tone makes him want to sink through the ground. “If you want to feel bad about something, I recommend you choose that. Moping about your romantic affairs is not a good enough reason to stop learning.”

“It’s not—there is no—” Lancelot sputters, wrapping his arms around himself and glancing back at the door with all the longing of a trapped mouse. As warm and welcome as it feels here, he would rather perish in those cold hallways than discuss his misgivings with the woman who seems to have none.

“Oh, spare me, you little liar,” Kaze huffs with a smirk, then flicks her quill, biting onto it again. “Now sit and be quiet for a bit as I try to figure out how to say this without twisting my tongue in a knot.”

Sitting quietly is something Lancelot usually excels at, so he nods before edging closer to the hearth, the fire crackling merrily. Cracking him a lopsided grin, Gawain moves closer to take place at the desk, as well. 

“Your tongue is plenty skilful to say this,” he says mildly as he pulls the chair out.

With a strained choking sound, Lancelot drops the dagger he has been taking off his belt with numb fingers. Neither Gawain nor Kaze react to his blunder, and he lets out a breath, before bending over to pick it up.

“Flatterer,” she accuses under her breath, not lifting her eyes. Her pupils are twitching a bit, shifting black shadows in the flickering warm gold, when she squints at the page, before trying again. “Consciensness?”

“Conscientiousness,” Gawain replies calmly, as he finishes pouring water into the goblet and slides it over to her. 

Huffing angrily, Kaze is silent for a moment. Then she takes a deep breath, slowly exhales and tries again. “Conscientisness?”

“Closer—alright, say the first part and then the second, again, you just need to bridge them…”

Over the next hour, Lancelot proceeds to sit quietly next to the hearth, greedily absorbing the warmth and covertly watching the pair bicker and flirt under the pretence of practising the language. 

The most confusing in all of this is that he is not sure who he is jealous of.

To his surprise, Kaze seems to actually struggle with words he has learned quite fast. It is an… Unusual thought. He has never before realised how much time she must have spent learning the language.

After a short while, he can no longer contain the urges he feels when looking at the two of them. Taking a deep inhale, he reaches out to his belt and carefully takes out the roll of parchments he kept tucked in behind it. Rolling it out on the floor, Lancelot pulls out a piece of chalk from the purse on his belt and looks up.

They throw him a couple of curious glances but do not interrupt their lesson. Bit by bit, tension draws out of his shoulders and back. Settling a bit more comfortably, he allows himself to get lost in the flow of lines running from his head and through his fingers before spilling onto the parchment. He is in luck — Gawain barely moves, giving him enough time to capture the shape.

Putting the rough sketch away, for now, Lancelot spends a moment choosing which one of the other drawings he wants to finish today. The mythical creatures all demand his attention, but there is one he has started most recently, and its voice is the strongest. 

Caught up in fixing the centaurus — he will need to go study Goliath again to figure out the proportion, it still looks a bit too much like a dog — Lancelot only realises the lesson has come to an end when the chairs scrape over the floor.

When he looks up at the approaching footsteps, Gawain gives him a small smile before nodding at the drawings.

“May I look?”

Behind him, Kaze stretches before starting to collect the books. She has managed to master half of the words, but it was, indeed, an uphill battle. Averting his eyes, Lancelot considers it for a moment longer and then gives a small nod.

Settling down on the floor next to him, Gawain crosses his legs and leans over to look at the drawings. At first, he only touches them to shift the parchments to the side if they lay on top of each other. But after a minute, he stretches to pick up one of them and Lancelot nearly vibrates out of his own skin with the desire to snatch it back, but smothers the urge and awaits the sentence in silence.

Cocking his head to the side, Gawain squints at the scowling medusa, then looks back at the sketches of the snakes and phoenixes.

“There is something in common between all of them,” he says, glancing between the drawings once more before gently lowering his hand, without letting go of the parchment. 

“Yes, that I fucked up the shadows,” Lancelot scoffs. It is strange, how he can so easily spot the error, yet has no idea how to fix it. How can something as easy and natural as light, the thing you see every day — unless it is Anglican winter — be so challenging to capture? Unbelievable.

“No,” Gawain mutters. “Well, not that only.”

He grins, wry and apologetic, when Lancelot throws him a glare, then looks back at the parchment with the focus that immediately atones for his harshness. 

“They are all... Something that is in between,” he says slowly, narrowing his eyes as he lets go of the medusa and hands it over. “Or something that gets reborn.”

“Not all of them,” Lancelot remarks, accepting the parchment and carefully rolling it into a bunch together with other sketches, mindful of smudging the charcoal too much.

“Yes, I noticed,” Gawain nods, reaching out to pick up one of the few still scattered over the floor. “Is that me?”

Without lifting his eyes, Lancelot gives a stiff nod. He was hoping that much at least would be evident—but when he looks up, he realises it is not the new portrait that Gawain is holding, but the one drawn on the first night. He has completely forgotten it was there, as well.

Oblivious to his crisis, Gawain hums, low and warm, as he tilts his head to inspect the profile shrouded in thick black smoke, tendrils of it weaving down the shoulders and reaching out to the side. “I look quite demonic, indeed.”

Before Lancelot can snatch the drawing out of his hand, Kaze appears at their side. Her eyes linger on the portrait as well—he tenses, expecting further teasing, but she just gives an approving nod.

“Got the essence right, then,” she remarks airily, to which Gawain replies by twisting and trying to bite her above the knee, which earns him a light swat on the head with a book, one of at least a dozen stacked on the desk. “Ouch! Stop gnawing at me, you rabid fox. Here — take these to the library before I tell Yeva you’ve been stealing them again.”

“It’s _my_ library,” Gawain complains without heat, before turning back to him and leaning in. A small smile curls his lips as he raises a hand to put it on his neck and draw him closer. When he speaks, his words are a hot whisper against Lancelot’s ear, as sharp and teasing as his teeth. “Is that how you still see me?”

With Kaze standing barely a step away from them, Lancelot thinks for a moment he might die from embarrassment, but when he dares a look at her, she is not looking at them, but at the ruined quill in her hands. 

The blush on his cheeks at knowing she is still perfectly aware of their position makes it nearly impossible to reply, as if the question itself implied an easy answer in the first place.

“No,” he huffs curtly, then rolls the last drawings together tightly, wrapping a cord around them, before pulling back.

“Good,” Gawain grins, getting up and extending him a hand that Lancelot ignores. His spine is rod stiff as he gets up, but when he turns to Kaze, she simply nods at him before pushing the stack of books in Gawain’s arms.

“The burden of wisdom, indeed,” he mutters, shouldering the door open. 

With the two of them at the forefront and Lancelot trailing just a step behind, they advance in the direction of the library. On the way, the teasing and the banter are gone, and even the postures of the two change. They seem to don their stricter personas like one does a cloak as they walk down the hallways full of bustling fey. 

However, when they round the corner and approach the library, which, at this hour, does not attract as much of a crowd, the formality is discarded again. Barbed remarks are exchanged aplenty, and, listening to them, Lancelot cannot help a feeling that he has been let in on a secret. 

He can’t help but smile at the thought; it is small but it seems to be enough to catch Kaze’s eye. Drawing back a couple of steps, she throws him a couple of curious glances until he meets her gaze. 

“How is this demon treating you, little creature?” she asks in a confidential whisper that is low enough for Gawain not to overhear unless he makes an effort. There is a slight smirk playing on her lips, but the look in her eyes is unexpectedly serious.

Lancelot wants to argue that he is not a creature, but the kind, even tone in which she says it gives him pause. It does not make him bristle as it indeed would if someone else has said it in a haughty, bored voice of people dealing with a hysterical child. Neither does it fill him with cold yearning as being called “he” does, or shocks him and itches in his ear, settling all wrong, like “she”.

It is a word one would use for a dragon or a chimaera. He quite likes it, he decides.

“Good,” he answers, at last, lowering his eyes. “Really—really good.”

“The sex is, surprisingly, worth his smugness about it, right?” She says quietly, a confidential smile on her face. Distantly, Lancelot realises she must have lowered her voice for his sake only, and nods mutely, his cheeks burning. “You don’t have to be shy about it, there is nothing wrong with enjoying it. But don’t forget he owes you more than that.”

Giving her a stiff nod even though he has no idea what she means, Lancelot jumps a bit when the door to the library bounces from the wall. The amused smile on Kaze’s face grows a bit, but, thankfully, she does not say another word as they follow inside.

It does not seem necessary for Gawain, anyway, as he gives him a sideways glance over the stack of books in his arms.

“Judging from the way Lance’s pretty face is on fire, you were talking about this morning. Which reminds me—was it necessary to bring up a cock cage?” he grits out through clenched teeth as he adjusts the hold on the fragile cargo that threatens to topple over just a step away from their destination. “I _just_ managed to get this rumour to die down. By all means, it should be me who is embarrassed.”

“I had to make sure they don’t come in. Besides, as we now know, your reputation is so soiled, any further slander would not be a noticeable blemish,” Kaze shoots back without batting an eye before she turns to him again, her face softening. “This young creature, on the other hand…”

Pouring the books onto the table and nearly knocking over the jug of wine that stands there, Gawain gestures at her threateningly with a tome. “We are almost the same age.”

The fraught silence follows as Kaze arches an unimpressed eyebrow, to which the knight huffs and does not otherwise reply, burying himself in arranging the books into neat stacks. Letting out a breath, Lancelot takes away the fingers he kept splayed over his face for the entire duration of their exchange. He is quite sure he has scalded them on his own blush.

“Thank you,” he says, turning to Kaze, his voice soft but earnest. “I’m… I’m very sorry you had to see me like that.” 

“Like what? Scared that I will for some reason bite your head off for being in Gawain’s bed? I am not your chaperone, Lancelot,” she scoffs, folding her arms. “We all sometimes make mistakes…” 

“Kaze, didn’t you have a meeting?” Gawain inquires suddenly, raising his head and squinting at her in feigned confusion.

“... Some of them more pleasant…” She continues as if not hearing him.

Lancelot colours and clenches his jaw, looking away, his nostrils flaring as he sharply sucks the air in. 

“... Some of them less…”

“Some of them are still here,” Gawain reminds them, closing the book and leaning back. 

They tacitly agree to ignore him. 

“... But honestly, exploration is half the fun,” Kaze finishes, shaking her cloak to straighten it before clasping it around her throat.

“You also think I am making a mistake..?” Lancelot wonders quietly, twirling a quill in his fingers that he has picked up from the bunch on the table. 

“Also?” Gawain asks incredulously. 

Kaze’s features soften for an instant before she arranges it back into the signature hard, severe expression he is familiar with from their training sessions. “It doesn’t matter what I—or anyone else—think. It’s your life. You want him, you get him.”

Gawain looks up at them at that, raising his eyebrows, but doesn’t try to interject anymore. Instead, he is pouring himself some wine. It’s a bit early, but Lancelot can relate, his mouth gone terribly dry. 

“I… will keep it in mind. Thank you for not telling others. It’s a bit too late for that, though,” he says quietly, dying on the inside but strangling his pride to ask for help in this slightly roundabout way. “Elaine figured it out.”

Frowning, Kaze throws a glance at Gawain, who looks as if he has bitten into a lemon.

“That Corbenic bitch, is it her? The one with less than subtle attempts at dragging you into handfasting,” she clarifies, and, when Gawain nods, rolls her eyes with a scoff. “Ah, but that’s easy to solve. An unfortunate accident…”

She emphasises her words by mimicking a stab, and Lancelot fidgets in his seat, suddenly feeling a bit hot under the collar. Kaze is just so—impossible not to admire. Even if right now, more than ever, he feels as if he pales in comparison until all that is left is a washed-out ghost hovering in the background.

Then the green eyes shift to him, banishing the creeping cold, and Lancelot perks up, glancing at Gawain in a silent question.

“No, we can’t,” the knight murmurs, before biting his knuckle thoughtfully.

“Whyever not?” Kaze narrows her eyes. “Don’t tell me you suddenly developed compassion for incompetent meddlers—or taste for the cloying sweetness.”

“Arawn save me from such a fate,” Gawain mutters with earnest worry in his voice, a genuinely uneasy look crossing his face as he leans his hip against the table. “No, but whenever she hounds Pym for information about me, she ends up spilling more secrets than learning.”

With a disbelieving huff, Kaze gives him a nod and hoists her sword up from whether it was propped against the table. “Alright. If Pym is on it, I will let her have her fun, leave you to yours and finally go have mine, too.”

The door closes, but Lancelot looks at it for a moment before turning his head to Gawain, who returns to sorting through the books, and is now picking up the last stack to put it away.

“Are you bedding her?”

The way Gawain comes to a halt is that of a lynx lowering its paw, claws already shown, when it is confused by the prey’s behaviour. For a short moment, the one that wrings every tendon in Lancelot’s body like a torture device, he is silent.

“No,” he utters finally, lowering the stack back on the table. “Why?”

“Just curious,” Lancelot says evenly, as he idly arranges the quills closest to him into neater piles.

On light feet, Gawain walks over to join him. Out of habit, he tenses when the shadow cuts off his source of light. The unease dies down when the man crouches in front of him, reaching out to cradle his cheek. Lancelot can feel the light pressure behind it, a suggestion to turn his head, and, after a moment’s hesitation, he follows it.

His reluctance falls apart when it collides with the twinking green that holds him under like a spell — Gawain does not even have to exercise any force to pin him in place, his fingers’ touch now feather-light as they rest under his chin.

“Are you jealous?” he wonders softly, lips curved in a knowing smile.

Pushing up abruptly, Lancelot turns around, eager to escape the keen eyes that seem to read him like an open book. He supposes he is one — he is just so used to no one really taking their time to glance at him, that it takes him aback that someone can read him fluently. It has always felt as if he was written in a language that no one understands, not even him, at times, yet Gawain seems to at least know it enough of it to get the gist. 

It is already more than Lancelot has ever hoped to find. 

The thought of giving it up fills him with stinging, hot anger. In an attempt to collect himself, he drifts to the bookshelves, raises his hand to trail the faded golden letters running down the book spines. The soft footsteps behind his back signify that Gawain has joined him, too, but this time, Lancelot feels more reassured by it than apprehensive.

“Maybe,” he admits, looking up and holding the green gaze for a short while, before glancing back at the book covers.

From the crooked grin that his confession is met with, he expects any number of questions or teasing remarks to follow. But instead, Gawain nods at the book he is currently studying, the worn-out blue fabric adorned with faint stitches of flowers.

“Do you want to read it?” he asks, reaching out to tip it into his hands, and Lancelot fumbles, but catches it before it can fall to the floor. However, when he opens it, the anticipation turns into a sour note of disappointment.

“It’s poetry. I don’t know Fey well enough yet,” he murmurs dejectedly, curling up on himself a bit.

“I can read to you. Wait, I’ll find something else—no? You want this?”

Sniffling softly, Lancelot nods.

“I like the cover,” he admits. His voice is hushed, and his shoulders are drawn, because this, again, is a weakness. He is not supposed to like these softer, gentler things if he is to make his living with a sword. They are useless — not needed by the world that seems to talk to him in terms of violence, only.

“Why?”

The question comes as a shock, and Lancelot stumbles over words, before giving up and plucking the easiest one.

“Cornflowers.”

“Cornflowers?” Gawain repeats, a confused frown creasing his forehead.

“Yes,” Lancelot gives a determined nod. “They are — blue. And they survive. I like them.”

When, after a short pause, Gawain speaks again, the corners of his mouth twitch and his nostrils quiver in a way that says he is barely holding back a laugh. “That’s… very fitting.”

Narrowing his gaze, Lancelot throws him an askance glance and hunches on himself. 

“Will you read it or not?” he bites out, thrusting the book into the rough, soft hands that he tries very hard to push out of his mind and fails.

“I will,” Gawain assures him calmly, accepting the book. “Come.”

Motioning for Lancelot to follow, he walks back to the main part of the hall. There is an old cushioned armchair with a carved wooden back standing next to the hearth. It is awfully cosy despite its tattered fabric and scruffed armrest—Lancelot knows, because he curled up in it more than once when he was swallowing book after book about fey culture and all the things he has not been allowed to learn about in the abbey.

Now, though, the beloved furniture presents an issue.

“Gawain?” he calls out with a frown. “There’s only one armchair.”

“Whatever shall we do about it,” comes a calm reply as the knight settles into it and then leans back, glancing at him from under half-closed eyelids. 

He looks awfully smug when he raises an eyebrow like that, when his mouth curls into an arrogant grin. It makes Lancelot want to wipe it off, by any means necessary. The pleasant ones are currently losing to the violent ones.

It is plenty obvious what Gawain wants him to do even before he pats his knee.

Narrowing his eyes, Lancelot clenches his jaw and looks around. In the shadowed corner, he spots a tiny rickety chair leant against the wall and, walking in angry, wide strides, hauls it over. It is not really a chair as much as some carpenter apprentice’s failed attempt at making one. Like an unloved bastard, it seems to have been sent out of sight and designated to be used as a ladder stool in the library.

It is terribly uncomfortable even for his tastes and is likely to break under him, sending him toppling over, before the smallest candle burns out. He puts it down with a thud, perches upon it and glances back at Gawain, raising an eyebrow as well.

A mere shrug is his only reply before Gawain opens the book, the pages rustling softly under his careful fingers. It is frankly unfair how unbothered he is, but there is little Lancelot can do besides leaning forward and listening, eyes riveted to his tightly clasped hands as Gawain begins to read.

“Which one do you want? With the moon or the wind?”

“The wind,” Lancelot replies in a low voice.

“Alright,” Gawain nods, leaning back, and clears his throat. “Fate is a wind, and red leaves fly before it…”

His voice is always pleasant, but it feels as if before Lancelot has only ever seen it from one side, something flatter and more clipped, a strain put on it by the air of the battlefield or council hall or infirmary. Even when they were together — and isn’t it strange, that he has this knowledge now — Gawain still sounded tired and on guard. 

But here and now, in the hushed silence of the empty library, dusty and welcoming, his voice is pouring sweet and slow, like honey. It is soft but deep, the rumble of the sea waves that draws Lancelot closer, an unvoiced longing awakened akin to one that must have drawn sailors to their death. 

“Would you let me in when the grey wind blows?” Gawain asks, softly, and his mouth curls into a small smile, as if he knows an amusing secret—and how Lancelot is eager to hear it.

At the words that follow, he bites into his lip and closes his eyes. The heat from the crackling fire seeps into his skin and pools in his stomach, making him flush, and he fidgets, trying to get more comfortable on a bloody chair, that, for its size, is a lot of trouble.

His torment must be rather obvious because Gawain pauses as if to give him a moment to reconsider his position. Coming to his senses, Lancelot leans back with a sharp, stubborn inhale and tries to focus on the words again.

The longer he listens, the more the nagging suspicion in the back of his mind strengthens until he catches Gawain on the slightest misstep, the slightest falter in the rhythm of the poem. When he tries to speak, his voice comes out too hoarse, and he has to cough before trying again.

“Wait—no, it can’t say that, you’re making it up. Let me see,” he demands, craning his neck but failing to see, because Gawain leans closer, snapping his teeth in front of his face in a feral grin. 

“Come take a look,” he breathes out, their noses almost brushing. The fire flickers in his eyes, as green as the one that springs readily from Lancelot’s fingers—right now, he feels, it only needs a single spark to flare up high. 

Flushing angrily, Lancelot lunges forward, but Gawain is faster, leaning back and taking the book away with him. He has to climb over him to snatch the book that the man holds in an outstretched hand above his head, but it’s only a brief moment, and then his fingers close around the blue cover. 

The victory is sweet—only sweeter because Gawain gives him a smile, raising his hands in defeat.

Content that he has thwarted the vile plan, Lancelot settles back onto the warm, firm lap, flipping the book open and rustling its pages as he looks for the same poem again. It is the one with a dragon curled around the title, its tail running down the edge of the page. When he finds it, it takes him a moment to decipher the ornate curls, but a few familiar words emerge after a glance.

“Here,” he says triumphantly, jabbing his finger into the right line. “It doesn’t say anything about green. It’s red here. And the wren you also made up.”

“True,” Gawain murmurs, a small smile tugging at the corner of his lips as he wraps his arms around his hips. “It doesn’t say anything about little wrens. It should, though.”

Scoffing, Lancelot averts his eyes, stretching over to the side to carefully put the book down. “Don’t say these things.” 

Tilting his head, Gawain adjusts his hold, and Lancelot pauses, glancing down at the hands resting over his hip bones. He swallows thickly, the thrumming heat in between his thighs spiking up at the sight, but before he can recoil in shame, Gawain catches him by the chin, forcing him to look up.

“Why not?” He insists, reaching out to smoothen his hand down his cheek, over his collarbone, before letting it drop back to his thigh. It just rests there, the palm of it hot even through the fabric, but Lancelot keens, low and desperate.

“You—you say it to everyone,” he forces out, voice breaking when he feels Gawain shift under him, the hard ridges of his body rising slightly to meet the vulnerable parts of him that are treacherously ready to yield under the warm pressure.

“I don’t,” Gawain retorts, and his voice does not even waver as he carefully puts a hand on his lower back, pushing him down and then helping him rise, bringing the blissful edge of friction that makes Lancelot gasp and toss his head back. “I never called anyone that.” 

“Why then?” He whispers, licking his lips, his eyes fixed on the flickers of the flames dancing across the ceiling. They are mesmerising enough for him to not even look down when the careful fingers tug at the laces of his trousers.

“Because you’re always looking for a fight,” Gawain mutters, pulling him closer and burying his face in his neck for a moment, biting softly into it as he keeps unlacing him. “Yet when you feel safe, you are so endearing.” 

Distantly, he realises his back is to the door, the door that anyone can walk in. It makes him stiffen again—almost reluctantly, his body unwilling to remember about the caution through the daze of pleasure. 

Lifting a hand, Gawain runs it down his spine, unravelling the tension there.

“I’ll keep an eye out. Don’t worry,” he murmurs into his ear, before grazing his teeth over its shell and tugging gently. With a strained, feverish mewl Lancelot arches up and pulls him closer.

“But—why…” he closes his eyes, biting on a lip when the fingers slide in, brushing over the heat gathered there. It takes all of his will power to force the last words out. “Why me? Why call me anything at all?” 

With a low hum, Gawain bites into his neck, holds the skin in his teeth for a moment before letting go and kissing over it. It makes Lancelot shiver, eyelashes fluttering as he arches up to soak more of the touch, the gentle caress between his thighs nearly overwhelming him.

Out of the corner of his eye, he can see the auburn hair spill down, can feel it tickle his neck, as Gawain licks down his throat. When he speaks, his voice is dark, twisted with tension. 

“Because you are one of a kind. You deserve to be called beautiful things, tender things. You deserve to know what it feels like to be loved.”

It works like a spell that tears the last of his defences down, scatters them in the wind Lancelot can feel ravaging his body as he throws his head back and moves, again, harder this time. 

But it takes a moment for the words to truly sink in—just when the slender fingers do, too, cold silver of the rings brushing over the moist skin. 

At that, he closes his eyes and swallows thickly, reaching down to take Gawain’s hands and tug them up, urging them back on his hips. There, he allows himself to press them deeper into his body. Only magnified by the thin fabric separating them and by the control he has, the thrill of the touch makes him inhale sharply and roll his hips forward. 

Leaning in, he does it again, his breath growing heavier, hitching on another slow sway. 

“Gods old and new,” Gawain moans, barely audible. “How are you so sensitive?”

 _It’s because the air chafes at my skin_ , Lancelot thinks, throwing his head back, moaning with his entire body the name even though he doesn’t make a sound. _It’s because my body is a raw, open wound._

 _Please_ , he thinks, _please, soothe this ache._

Leaning closer again, Gawain moves under him, slowly rolling his hips up, a teasing drag back and forth that makes Lancelot whimper softly.

“How are you so—calm…” he trails off on a gasp, shifting slightly to press down on the hard, insistent weight, moving along it. 

“I am giving, not taking,” Gawain replies, his eyes indeed sharp if slightly wild as they flicker up to the door before returning to him. Slowly, he spreads his legs, settling in to lift his hips a bit more. With the hand resting on Lancelot’s back, he guides him to meet the movement. “Makes it easier.”

“And if I—if I give?” He tries to say, stuttering at another shallow thrust, gasping once more, almost moaning. The pace barely increases, but the glides are rougher, longer now. The buzzing, hot feeling — _the good one_ — fills him from inside, wells up fast. “Will it be—be easy?”

“No,” Gawain’s eyes darken, like the shadows growing deeper when the clouds cover the sun. “But if you want to really give yourself to me, then I will make sure there is no one to interrupt us, first.”

Swallowing a moan, Lancelot takes a moment to find his voice.

“And… and then?”

Slowly, Gawain tilts his head to meet his eyes, his hips stilling for a moment before they start again. 

“Then,” he says quietly, running his fingers down his neck, his caress steady and deep until it turns light over the tight straps of linen. “I will lay you down in my bed, and strip you of your numerous defences, take them off one by one. Take some time to appreciate you, bare and wanting,” he hums softly, his fingers drawing back, pausing and then sliding back down, circling around the navel, making Lancelot whimper. “You were so beautiful last night. Just to think what you will be like when I get you ready for me—when I am in you.” 

His voice is low and even, but every word is branded into Lancelot’s mind, making him squeeze his eyes shut, both trying to block it off and chase more of it. Stomach clenching so hard he curls in on himself a bit, he tries to breathe enough to speak.

“But then..?” he forces out, squeezing his eyes shut when the gentle fingers press against him again. He does not stop them this time, chases their caress in frantic little jerks, his own fingers tightening their grip around the armrests.

“I will take what you want me to take,” Gawain replies, his own breathing having grown just a bit heavier. It brings an edge to his voice that sends a thrill down Lancelot’s spine, echoed by another as the fingers taking him apart grow more insistent, followed by the harsher thrusts of the hips. “Will leave you breathless, sated, smiling, will have you lose your voice. Will know you like no one ever did.”

With a desperate, choked off moan, Lancelot surges up, his hips wrung by a maelstrom of demanding, fierce fire as he buries his face in the crook of Gawain’s neck. It is stronger than before, so violent in its force that it blacks out the world for a moment, his senses full of the sharp, tantalising smell of the knight’s skin. 

Quickly, it grows too much, and he falls backwards, gasping for air. There are tears prickling his eyes, and he is gaping in what is probably a foolish, raw expression; but the embarrassment does not even get a chance to fully register before Gawain kisses him, hungry and rough.

“Do you want to do it now?” he rasps out—demands—and Lancelot nods, dazed and willing to do anything that Gawain might possibly ask right now. Even if he asked him to kill someone, he would do so without batting an eye; to lie with him is no sacrifice at all.

But when he is hoisted up, rough hands sliding down his thighs as if gauging how to better take his clothes off, he drags his mind out of the gutter. There are fresh scars on his arms that he does not have the strength or wits to explain, burning in silent warning already. 

So, heaving for air, he catches Gawain’s hands and squeezes them tightly.

“Wait,” he pleads, stomach churning at the slight frown that his words bring out. “Wait—please. I—I need to get that thing from Polly, and—and a bath—and—”

“—and another day,” Gawain finishes for him with a soft sigh, pulling his hands free and throwing his head back, the soft thud as it collides with the back of the chair. When he swallows, Lancelot cannot help but track the way his throat bobs. He desperately wants to reach out and touch, not only that, but everything he sees, but instead he stays frozen, unsure whether he would be welcome.

After a moment’s wait, he shifts, drawing a low hiss from Gawain.

“Sorry,” they say simultaneously, and Lancelot falls silent, allowing the knight to take over.

“Sorry,” Gawain repeats, waving with his hand before pressing it to his lips, rings gleaming softly against the dark red of it. “Just give me a moment, and I will get it under control.”

“Get what?” Lancelot blinks out of his daze. 

“This?” Gawain scoffs, nodding at what Lancelot realises is still an undeniably taut stretch of his trousers. It is a solid proof of the effect he has that makes him both wince in how crude it is and also bite his lip, proud, curious excitement sweeping him under.

With only the faded glow of the embers in the hearth to illuminate the space, the man in front of him suddenly strikes a far more menacing figure than before. His red hair dishevelled and pupils blown wide, vibrant green eyes gleaming wildly with the last reflection of the dying fire, he looks as if there is incubus blood in his veins.

But his scent is still the same, the pleasant, safe, sharp musk. It turns the image into a thrilling one instead of a frightening one.

“Can I… do something?” he wonders, reaching out hesitantly to brush his fingers over the obscene swell. Encouraged by the hitching inhale, he does it again, presses his palm into the hot, rigid shape, mapping it out. It makes the skin of his hand tingle, a curious sensation shooting to his wrist.

Eyes drawn to the terra ignota in front of him, he catches only a glimpse of how Gawain tilts his head, watching him slide his palm up and down, curling it around the softer, blunter part.

“You can,” he utters, before reaching down to catch his hand and press it in harder, the fingers of the other already undoing the laces.

\---

When Gawain hoists him up and bites into his mouth, Lancelot catches him by the shoulder to steady himself. He startles at the white still dripping from his wrist, thick and musky, a heady scent of it drifting to his nose. It is so potent, he is not sure he would be able to resist if asked again.

“I need to go,” he manages to gasp, turning his head to the side. All that the manoeuvre achieves is it redirects the attention to his throat, which is toe-curlingly pleasant, but horribly unhelpful.

Gawain hums, low and hungry, in between the fast, hard kisses.

“Of course,” he murmurs, and does not draw back an inch. “Though, you know, it is fucking difficult to let you go now that all I can think about is undressing and ravishing you right here.”

“Here?” Lancelot asks weakly, tilting his head up, shivering under the hail of caresses that follow, trailing down to his collarbones. 

“Mhm. The books won’t tell,” Gawain chuckles, before licking into the vulnerable, open dip. His hands tighten their grip on his hips, but when he feels him stiffen, they loosen again. “Easy, wren, you said no, means no. Besides, you have already given me a hand.”

Lancelot frowns, throwing a hesitant glance at the seed drying on his hand. It carries so much of that safe, pleasant scent in it, that he cannot resist the temptation; he runs his fingers over it, spreading the silky droplets over his skin. “Was it too little?”

“No, no, it was — perfect,” Gawain says in a slightly dazed tone, his eyes riveted on the small circles Lancelot is rubbing into his own hand. “Gods. You are... unexpectedly thrilling.”

“Unexpectedly?”

The echoes come back, _unrefined_ , and _oddity_ , and _prude_ , and the net of scars on his arm only does so much to catch them and restrain the shame, rising, hot and ruthless, in his chest. He does not even hear it himself, but something must bleed into his tone, because Gawain seems to realise what he has said and winces, drawing back, some of the flush draining out of his cheeks. 

“I meant—because of your past.”

Right, Lancelot thinks, and turns away, hiding his face. Inhaling sharply, he gets up, dull ache flaring up in his legs. The fire has completely gone out by now, barely a crack of blazing red in the dark jaw of the hearth.

“Lance, wait,” Gawain hurries to get up, too, catching his hand and forcing him to look back at him. “Forgive me for bringing it up. You just — keep catching me off guard.”

The fact placates him somewhat, and he nods, then pauses, quickly nuzzles into the man’s palm, and pulls away.

“Wait—come here,” Gawain murmurs, drawing him closer and wrapping his arms around him in an embrace. As he speaks, feather-light kisses follow in every pause. “You’re maddeningly appealing, and so—thrilling. Rousing. I would choose you over all the others in a heartbeat. And if you let me, I will teach you all I know. How does that sound?”

When Lancelot looks back at him, the cover of the darkness that does not dull his eyes but only his worry lets him study the knight’s face in relative peace. His eyes linger on the features set in a serious, earnest expression, searching for any trace of a lie and finding none. Selfishly, he takes a moment to savour the hushed beauty of it, before speaking up.

“Will there be cages?” he huffs softly, weaving his fingers through the dark red strands, tugging at them softly, thrilled at how Gawain tilts his head to allow him to do it, a slight smile resting on his lips.

“No,” he says. “No cages.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The lines Gawain reads are from Sara Teasdale:  
> "Did You Never Know?" (Fate is a wind, and red leaves fly before it // Far apart, far away in the gusty time of year— // Seldom we meet now, but when I hear you speaking, // I know your secret, my dear, my dear.) and The Rose and The Bee (Would you let me in when the gray wind blows? // Would you hold your petals wide apart, // Would you let me in to find your heart, // If you were a rose?)


	8. seen (saw) that wild blue yonder

“Your head is in the clouds today.”

It is said with such calmness that Lancelot first nods and only after a moment of expectant silence realises it was supposed to be an admonition. 

Seeing how Kaze does not seem poised to attack, waiting instead for him to respond, he stops circling her, too. Lowering his blade, he sighs, wiping the sweat off his forehead with one hand—his breath clouds in the air, a tiny, frustrated puff of white.

“I am sorry,” he murmurs under his breath, desperately annoyed with himself. With another sigh, he runs a hand over his face. Pushing the dishevelled hair out of his eyes, he looks away before elaborating. “It’s this… It’s Gawain.”

Not taking her sharp eyes off the blade she is inspecting meticulously, rotating it slightly this side and that, sun catching on the edge, Kaze scoffs and gives him a short nod. “I gathered as much. Has he offended you somehow?”

There is a subtle icy note running through her voice that warms Lancelot to the bone. His eyes fixed on a wisp of smoke rising to the skies from one of the numerous chimneys, he takes a breath to wrangle the feelings mounting in his chest, both of them, under submission. 

“No,” he breathes out, another small cloud of fog drifting up. “Not at all.”

It feels as if Kaze has called off her troops, even though outwardly she has not moved an inch. The unspoken unfolds between them, shifts in tone from the warning steely grey to something brighter, vibrant blue, a promise of a clear winter day. It is the same colour as the barely clouded sky above their head, a nearly perfect circle of lapis framed by the overhanging eaves of the roofs surrounding the small inner yard they chose for training this morning.

When Kaze speaks again, still looking at the polished scimitar blade, it is with a small smile curling one corner of her lips up. “Has he done the opposite?”

Colouring, Lancelot glances away, before taking a deep inhale. “He… read to me.”

It is the truth — he knows better than to try and lie to her face — but it seems that recently Kaze grew less tolerant of his omissions. 

It is a wordless tug of war between them for a while: Lancelot looking away and angling himself to avoid her keen gaze, and Kaze wearing him out as she sometimes does in a fight. When he refuses to give in, clenching his jaw and keeping silent despite the growing blush on his cheeks, she lifts her eyebrows. 

“Don’t fret, I am not going to ask further. But you might want to come up with a better excuse in the future. Tell me, however, why are you so worried then?”

His gaze trained firmly on a particularly fascinating patch of snow resting on the ledge of a watchtower, Lancelot gives a slight shrug. There is some commotion up there, glimpses of shadows moving back and forth in the narrow windows, but no warning bells ringing, so he looks away.

“It just made me think. This… feeling... I should have let it starve and—trouble me no more.”

“So he did read to you,” Kaze hums, then lowers her blade and raises her gaze, urging him to meet her eyes. “Don’t you remember how that poem ends?”

“I do,” Lancelot confirms quietly. He wishes he didn’t, but the words, all of them that he managed to catch when not distracted by warm hands and their exhilarating touch, stayed firmly in his mind.

Shivering, he adjusts the grip on his sword to bring both his cold hands to his mouth, rubbing them together and blowing on them. His fingers are ruddy and dry from the biting cold, but it bothers him way less than that the way Kaze narrows her eyes.

“So? Stop treating love like an enemy and listen to yourself. You are the one making this choice. And deep inside, you already know what you want it to be.”

“My heart clouds my judgement,” Lancelot argues, kicking the small clump of snow with the toes of his boot in frustration. “I cannot listen to it. Not if I want to survive.”

“Do you really still believe that? Even after the renunciation of that cult?” She hesitates, unease creeping onto her face, a startlingly raw display of emotion that makes his chest constrict. “You do know there will be no punishment if you say no?”

Immediately, Lancelot nods to placate her and grabs the sword again, hoping it would get him out of this particular thread of conversation. As much as he appreciates Kaze’s attention, it gets under his skin how every fey in the castle seems to believe him so pliable, so — submissive — not that it would be wise to dissuade them. 

“Not like that,” he murmurs. “I… was afraid of that, but no more. But if I want to remain free, if I want to become anything worthy — I have to stay alone. Like you do.”

“Is that so?” She pauses, as if waiting for him to either deny or confirm her words. He does neither, just rolls his shoulders silently. “I see.”

As they stand with their blades lowered, the light wind throwing handfuls of snow from the ledge of the roof, it feels as if the air between them has grown colder. Shivering, Lancelot shifts from one foot to another, and it seems to be the signal Kaze was waiting for.

“You know, Lancelot,” she begins in a low voice, twirling her blade once and taking a step closer. “Alone or not, I listen to my heart. Let’s see if it makes me an unworthy fighter.”

At last catching on the subtle change in her scent, Lancelot inhales sharply, an apology on the tip of his tongue, but before he can open his mouth, Kaze lashes out, and he leaps back, all words flying out of his head as he raises the sword to parry a thrust that comes right after. The cling of the steel meeting steel resonates through the yard, echoing from its walls, and the dance begins again. 

He does not immediately notice it, but it is not just the stunning ferocity of the first attack; something has shifted in how she carries herself in a fight. They have trained together enough for him to know a great deal of her usual tactics — or so he has thought. But the rhythm is off now, and he cannot predict the next move, while Kaze, it seems, knows exactly where his next attack will be.

“My damask dagger, my beloved friend,” she says suddenly, deflecting his blow without even facing him fully, the quick glimmer of the blade’s polished surface that throws him off with ease. “So cold to the touch and so bright, forged for revenge by a brooding highlander.”

Her voice has turned lilting, she almost sings the line and the steel sings along as she turns to face him. Frowning, Lancelot takes a step back, suddenly realising he does not see an easy opening with the way Kaze positioned herself. 

When he raises the sword again, holding it as if it is a venomous snake eager to lunge, he meets her eyes for a brief moment. The hairs on the back of his neck raise at their intensity, dark and deep like quicksand in the night desert, falling through under his feet, dragging him down.

“The proud free man he was who honed you for the fight,” she remarks calmly, before arching her eyebrow at him in a taunt. The snow disturbed by their feet settles around her in a glittering spray, drifting slowly down in the gentle wind.

Flushed, Lancelot clenches his jaw and throws himself forward, spinning out of the way at the very last moment and slashing out at Kaze’s side. He can already feel triumphant cry bubble in his throat, a sharp smile stretching his lips—

—the longsword is caught on a scimitar, sliding down with a defeated cling.

“Love’s wordless pledge, bestowed as my companion,” she continues, not missing a beat, her face still set in the same proud, sombre expression. She is not even the slightest out of breath. “You offer me wise counsel as I wander.”

Out of breath, humiliated and honoured at once, Lancelot struggles to focus on his next attack, but the feelings loop around his neck, suffocating like a noose, they settle stone-heavy in his chest and throw him off balance. 

He does strike again, but the lunge is sloppy, and he knows before even finishing the move that it is not going to land—and then Kaze uses the opportunity and swoops his feet from under him. The time slows down, then accelerates again, as he finds himself on the ground with the fierce woman looming over him, her eyes glowing gold in the shadow as they meet his.

“And so my iron friend, I shall remain like you,” she finishes, the tip of her sword resting under his chin. “My spirit steeled. My will unbroken.”

The following silence feels like the winter itself — bright and sharp as shards of ice, heavy and deep as snow. It falls between them alongside the snowflakes twirled by the wind, and only just settles on the ground as Kaze dispels it by removing her blade and stretching a hand out to help him up.

Accepting it gingerly, Lancelot inhales quietly, the thrill of their touch shooting all the way from the tips of his fingers to his elbow, a tingling warmth akin to one you get when pressing snow into an open palm. 

When they stand side by side, Kaze waiting for him to recover his dignity, he sighs softly, brushing the flakes of snow off his sleeves. His heart still beating wildly from their fight, he lowers his eyes and tries to understand at least a part of what has just happened, but his thoughts scatter in the wind. 

“I haven’t heard this one before,” he murmurs for the lack of anything better to say. “It’s… I am glad I know it now. Thank you.”

Kaze straightens and gives him a short nod, shifting her weight from one foot to another. The sun is glinting off the blade she still holds bare in her hand, her grip turned white-knuckled.

“The man who wrote it was a warrior, praised for his courage and admired by his brothers-in-arms. He was also an ardent lover who spilt his heart out in verses as if there was no tomorrow.”

A sharp stab of longing pierces his chest and Lancelot sniffles softly. It sounds like a dream life.

“How did he die?” he asks quietly, and Kaze shrugs with one shoulder, the tip of her scimitar drawing a thin line in the packed snow under her feet.

“What does it matter, Lancelot? What matters is how he lived—listening to his heart.”

For a moment, he wants to argue, but the words do not come to him, and he abandons it. The wind brings the sweet, familiar smell that makes him tense at first, then inhale deeply and let out a slow exhale. 

He does not have to turn around to utter a greeting—their weapons will do it for them in just a minute. As worn out as he is by the training, Lancelot can still take his next opponent. Of course, it is a pity that his magnanimous defeat has been witnessed by him, but perhaps he can survive that.

“I never saw you fight like that before,” he says under his breath, and Kaze shakes her head as she sheathes her sword.

“I was giving you time to figure out a lot of things on your own,” she replies sternly, not taking her eyes off the newest arrival, who steps out of the shadows and into the circle of light cast by the sun approaching the zenith. “But it seems we need to speed things up a bit.”

Swallowing, Lancelot gives her a nod. Apparently, he has severely underestimated at least one of his fellow warriors, and the realisation is a humbling experience, indeed. At least, he consoles himself, it is a shooting practice next and he is fairly sure he can uphold his previous record of deflecting three arrows in a row.

The snow squeaks under soft leather boots when the knight circles him. It is surprising how much emotion can someone pack in a single glare, Lancelot marvels. Even more so given that this someone barely reaches his shoulder.

Getting worn out by their stare down, he coughs slightly and makes the first move. “Is there anything… wrong?”

A slight narrow of the grey eyes sends a shiver down his back he would never admit to.

“I don’t know,” Percival says darkly, his arms crossed and the distinct scent of thunderstorm wafting off his skin. “I suppose it is just another thing I am too young to understand.”

Lancelot stops inspecting his own wary reflection in the blade and glances up. “What is?”

“You and Gawain.”

“How do you…”

“I have eyes,” the boy replies dryly, then turns around to walk to the opposite side of the yard, still muttering under his breath. “Which you, tall people, seem to forget about.”

Swallowing down the barb, Lancelot edges a bit closer to the wall, putting some distance between them, then raises his voice slightly to be heard, even though he desperately wishes not to have to say these words.

“Are you angry at me?”

“No,” Percival snaps, then roughly yanks an arrow out of the quiver slung over his back. “It’s not like he is my father, so it doesn’t matter.”

Lancelot barely has time to dodge the arrow, diving under — it flies right past his ear, hitting the wall behind him. Stumbling up, he raises his blade and deflects the next one properly, taking a quick step further in a split second it takes Percival to pull out the third.

~

They end up breaking the record.

“Four!” Lancelot exclaims, thrusting his fist up victoriously. “Four, Percy!”

He should tell Gawain, he decides, his heart racing in his chest.

“Not bad for a girl,” Percival agrees, dropping on the steps leading up to the door that, judging by the swaying cobwebs, has not been opened in decades.

“I told you I am not a girl,” Lancelot huffs out, strolling over to join him. The stone is hard and cold under his thighs, but it allows him to stretch his legs, for which he is grateful. Placing his sword at hand, but not sheathing it yet, to let it rest a bit in the bright air as well, Lancelot throws his head back and squints for a moment at the blinding white circle of the sun. It’s past noon by now.

“Well, you whine like one,” the boy remarks, pulling out a small aspen branch from behind his belt, as well as his whittling knife. “You’re also a Fey, and you’re a Christian, so that’s hardly the most confusing part.”

“I am not a Christian,” Lancelot says with conviction, shaking his head. “Not anymore.”

“Yeah, right,” Percival scoffs, his knife flicking in fast, precise movements as he whittles. “And you kept the cross as a keepsake.”

Blood runs cold in Lancelot’s veins, and when he finds the strength to speak, his voice comes out as hoarse as a crow’s croak.

“How do you know about the cross?”

The scrape of the knife stops abruptly. In the dead silence, he can hear how the boy swallows nervously.

“I… uh…”

“How do you know, Percival?” Lancelot repeats, his voice dropping lower, barely above the rustle of the wind.

“I saw you once in the baths when you were alone, and I spotted it on the floor,” the boy blurts out all in one go, eyes going wide. “I am sorry, I didn’t mean to — I haven’t told anyone, alright?”

Leaning back, Lancelot presses his hands to his face for a moment, then exhales slowly and pulls them away. The sun glinting off the snow blinds him, the world draped in bright blue shadows for a split second.

“You should really stop spying on people,” he mutters softly, trying to speak over the frantic, heavy thumps of his heart. “It’s disrespectful.”

Percival fidgets, a crestfallen look on his face as he frowns. “I was not spying, I just forgot my knife there and came back for it.”

“Why on earth do you have a knife with you in a bath,” Lancelot wonders flatly, leaning back again. Hopefully, the boy is honest, and it will all blow over without any repercussions. 

“Same reason as you.”

“To fight off rapists?” Lancelot arches his brow and only relents when the boy first blanches and then reddens, approaching in colour one of those blasted turnips they all had the chance to study in detail for weeks. “Sorry. That, indeed, you are too young to talk about.”

“I do know about it,” the boy mutters hesitantly. “I… nevermind.”

Guilt sweeping over him, Lancelot keeps silent. He has always kept close to Father, who condemned those who fell prey to fey vice. But it was impossible to avoid the desperate cries reaching his ears, the ones that made him step away silently and go deal with the wicked brothers himself. 

Father never learnt of that.

The chill creeps under his cloak at the memory of how much blood on his hands belonged to red brothers even before he escaped. He has never told anyone about it. The fact that he tried to weed out the true evil alongside the imaginary did not make anything better. He has never helped those women afterwards, simply stepped away once he sliced another friar’s throat, and left without looking back.

He met some of them again, here in the castle. They never spoke to him of those events, either, and he did not know whether to be grateful for it or to feel bitter that they did not acknowledge what little light he has managed to preserve in him.

Percival shifts next to him, a warm, solid weight with a pointy elbow that digs into Lancelot’s ribs, effectively bringing him out of his dark thoughts.

“Anyway, you’re a girl, and you’re also my brother,” the boy shrugs with the uncompromising confidence of someone very young who pointedly ignores the possible contradictions their statement contains. “It’s weird, but it works, I guess. Besides, I already have two sisters. It’s more than enough.”

Fidgeting at the familiar chill of unease curling down his spine at the mention of the missing sky-woman, Lancelot inhales before venturing into the dangerous territory.

“Is there... any news about her?”

“You don’t have to pretend you care,” Percival says curtly, not taking his eyes off the branch that slowly takes the shape of a stake. Pausing, Lancelot considers it for a moment, wondering if they are expecting the invasion of ghouls on top of the paladin’s siege, but lets it go for now.

Gawain would have probably told him if they did. He knows how Lancelot feels about the undead. Which Nimue might actually be if she ever returns.

“I don’t—I don’t pretend. I just—never met her.”

To her luck, Lancelot adds to himself, though not like it has helped the young witch much. Percival seems to think the same as he hums darkly, shaving the wood off with too much force.

“Well, yes, it would be difficult with her being shot and most likely dead,” he murmurs bitterly, then sighs, briefly pressing the heel of his palm to his eyes. “Which is my fault, anyway.” 

Startled, Lancelot looks at him and blinks rapidly, before realising he has to say something fast.

“It isn’t,” he hurries to offer a consolation that is too little too late, like every other one he can possibly offer to the fey. “It isn’t your fault, Percival. It’s the fault of the paladins.”

“I taught that bloody insane girl how to shoot a bow. I made it, even.”

“And she made a choice to use the weapon against the innocent,” Lancelot argues hotly, twisting to the side to grasp the boy’s shoulder tightly, urging him to look away from the branch that is now too gnawed on by the blade to be of any use. “It’s her fault. Not that of the weapon or the one who made it.”

The silence is his only reply. It is still and fraught between them, caught in the tiny droplets clinging to the boy’s curling eyelashes that refuse to spill, in the bitter twist of his pink mouth. As he looks at it, the grief grows like a shadow, far taller than the boy it looms behind. Lancelot fidgets again, a desperate need to know pushing him to give voice to his own torments.

“Percy,” he mutters. “Do you think my parents are to blame for giving birth to me?”

“What? No,” the boy frowns, wiping at his nose and reaching to pocket his knife. “Why do you—ah.”

The awkward silence between them stretches, filled with unvoiced questions flickering in Percival’s eyes and unspoken apologies crowding on the tip of Lancelot’s tongue. As minutes pass with no words uttered, the still air grows so heavy that they both lower their heads, glancing away from each other.

They don’t pull apart, though, and his hand stays resting heavily on the bony shoulder. The ridges do not fit well against his palm, but Lancelot is unwilling to let go. It is a little gesture, but it seems to keep that shadow behind the boy’s back at bay, and as long as he can ward it off, he will do it.

“Do you remember them?” Percival asks abruptly, twirling the sorry stump of wood in his small hand. The only way it can be used against an enemy now is by offending a master carpenter sensibilities.

“No,” Lancelot sighs, leaning back and propping himself on the stairs. “Or at least I can no longer tell what I told myself as a bedtime story and what really happened.”

“That sucks,” the boy mutters with feeling, which is as crude as it is succinct. “At least I knew mine.”

Clearing his throat, Lancelot gives him a sideways glance. “Do you… want Gawain to be your father?”

“Who wouldn’t,” Percival sighs wistfully. “But it’s not what it is. And he already knighted me, so I am—I am a man now, not a child. I am expected to tend for myself, not hide behind him.”

“I don’t think that’s how he sees it,” Lancelot offers cautiously. “He told me several times how happy it would make him to have a son like you.”

“He did?” The boy lights up at once. “Not joking?”

“None, I swear,” Lancelot promises, drawing him closer with one arm.

Somehow, he knows the crunching that follows as Percival stabs the slab of packed snow laying next to them on the stairs sounds happy. Perhaps Lancelot just speaks the language of steel and ice well enough to tell the difference. He is certainly more fluent in that than in tender gestures, but it seems that his awkward embrace is good enough for Percival, who remains pressed into his side. 

His main duties are over for today, and the boy, despite his title, has none—which leads to him inventing some, including potentially dangerous overlooking of the enemy’s territories from the icy roofs. Lancelot does not get to enjoy the quiet for long, though — a slightly worried voice sounds from around the corner, and he recognises it as Pym’s.

“Lancelot? Has anyone seen Lancelot?” 

“She’s here!” Percival shouts back, before glancing down at the ruined stake. With a vague noise of disgust, he throws it over his shoulder, and it rolls across the snowed cobblestones, landing in the tiny groove, on a narrow dark strip of bare ground.

“Seriously, when will you stop calling me that?” Lancelot asks with mild annoyance.

He does not miss those times, but just a few months ago a hint of frustration in his voice would have been enough to make everyone, including the boy, give him a wary glance and think twice about what they were going to say. 

“When you stop calling me Percival,” comes a quick retort.

So, yes, now, apparently, his murder glare does nothing. Huffing, Lancelot shakes his head but follows to stand as well. The back of his trousers has soaked through with ice, and he winces, glad that he does not have to wear them for much longer — the baths are his next stop.

While they brush the snow off their knees and cloaks, Pym finally appears in the arched entrance of the yard, her hair gleaming brightly in the sun. Judging by the yet another weirdly shaped flower clutched absently in her hand, she has been intercepted by a lovesick druid apprentice again.

“Oh, so good you’re both here!” She exclaims, waving her hands at them, the fluffy petals swaying wildly. Lancelot has never thought that a flower can look retarded, yet fey magic truly works miracles. “Come already—Gawain is back, and he has brought friends with him!”

“Friends?” Lancelot frowns in confusion, picking up his scabbard. Out of the corner of his eye, he sees a similarly perplexed look appear on Percival’s face. If there is one thing that fey lack even more than supplies these days, it is allies.

“Foreigners!” The girl exhales with a bright grin on her face that only grows wider at the next words. “And handsome ones at that.”

Rolling his eyes, Percival pulls a face, shaking his head as he approaches his sister. “Of course that’s what you would find interesting.”

“Well, Sir Squirrel,” Pym says with a mocking grimace, before attempting a clumsy curtsey that makes the boy huff with laughter. “A refined young man like you, with interests far more sophisticated than a lowly servant like me, might be delighted to know there is also food.”

“Food? What kind of food?” the boy perks up, picking up the pace. Lancelot does, too, even though he does not say a word. He has nothing to complain about now, used to modest rations at the abbey, but he is curious where Gawain has managed to procure the supplies in the dead of the winter.

“All kinds of,” Pym laughs in delight, her face alight with a smile. “Several carts of grain and preserves. They delivered them from one of the villages further north, across the border.”

“Oh thank fuck,” Percival breathes out, while Lancelot keeps silent, once again. “I am fed up with these weird turnip.”

“Yes, it’s pretty bad,” the girl agrees with a disgusted wince. “But it’s the only thing that the spell can grow for now… And it is not as bad as their flowers...”

At that moment, they round the corner, entering the main courtyard and Lancelot witnesses the scene that, he imagines, is how the sack of Rome probably looked.

The pagans, in this case, are the fey who are swarming the carts with the unbridled enthusiasm of a pack of hungry wolves. It seems like the entire population of the castle spilt out of the many doors to meet the victorious party at the gates. The lively hubbub deafens Lancelot for a moment before he refocuses and drowns out the insignificant details.

The usual group Gawain takes with him on forays has not only returned in full, it seems, but grown almost thrice: a good three dozen armed, grinning fey and man-bloods are standing next to the carts. There are five of them, laden high with sacks and crates, and the closest is crowned with two armed men—one of them Gawain.

“Got you your grain, after all!” He calls out to Cora, who just shakes her head and huffs in reply, but the wide smile on her face speaks volumes. Even the bells on her antlers seem to jingle merrier.

Dropping the reins, the knights leaps down from the cart, landing on the snow-covered cobblestones with effortless grace. His companion, a swarthy young man with a mop of thick curled hair of a raven blackness and a bright grin, follows suit. While Gawain makes his way through the crowd, the stranger lags behind, immediately surrounded by curious guards and a mob of young women, Pym among them.

Looking away, Lancelot meets the green, shining gaze and momentarily forgets about the rest of the fey gathered in the courtyard. Only when a note of linseed oil and rosemary drifts to his nose, accompanied by the soft crunch of snow under the light feet, he realises that Kaze has joined them. They both watch in silence as the knight gives Percival a firm, short hug.

“You did it!” The boy exclaims, his cheeks flushed, and his eyes gleaming with excitement. “Who are these fey? Where are they from? They are fighting for the resistance, too?”

“Yes, they are,” Gawain confirms as he ruffles the boy’s hair absently and then promptly drops his hand. “That dashing scoundrel you can see seducing Pym is Sir Priamus, one of my closest friends. We met in the Fatimid Caliphate. Percival, go ask him about the time he had to fight in Cairo.”

Not needing any more encouragement, the boy shoots off, darting between the adults as he weaves his way through the crowd. All three of them follow him with their eyes, and Lancelot takes a second look at the man, who is, apparently, quite important to Gawain. 

He, as well his men, do look like foreigners. Not even because of their appearance, but the way they hold themselves, as if slightly out of tune with the rest of the crowd, moving in a different system of coordinates. It does not stop the man—Priamus—from rapidly making friends, it seems; and more than that.

“I am not sure he is the only one seducing,” Lancelot remarks quietly, watching how Pym bats her eyelashes, then says something that makes the man grin and shake his head. “She seems—to keep up.”

Standing so close to him their shoulders brush, Gawain huffs in reply. “No objections to that. But I do want to see his face when he tries to explain to an eleven-year-old how he fought in a public bathhouse. Come, let’s enjoy this spectacle from the front row—also, help me unload the carts.”

Together they make their way through the crowd that parts in front of Gawain like waves in front of the ship. The fey are absolutely delighted, clapping the knight on the back and shaking his hand, before trying to ask him more about the unexpected guests. Dodging their questions with the promise of explaining everything later, Gawain reaches the cart and jumps over its railing again.

“I thought we agreed you would not try anything risky for a week,” Kaze says suddenly, as she hauls down one of the sacks, handing it over to the errant boys scurrying back and forth between the kitchens and the yard. “I am glad you made it back. How did you do it?”

“That’s the weirdest part,” Gawain says under his breath, then briefly glances around before continuing in the same hushed voice. “That lake you investigated, the one on the way from the village, it froze overnight. When the paladins tried to follow us, the ice broke under them— _ only _ them. There were yet more of them waiting in the ambush on the other shore. Frankly, I thought we were done for, but that’s when Priamus appeared out of the woods with his men. They stuck the paladins full of arrows, like pin cushions.” 

This sounds so bizarre that Lancelot would have been tempted to call the knight out on a lie if only it made any sense for him to spin such a story. Still, it is cold but not cold enough for the entire lake to freeze deep enough for the heavy cart to go over—not to mention the rest. As far as lucky coincidences go, it sounds too much.

“Was it magic?” he can’t help but wonder aloud, swaying slightly under the weight of the sack, but staying upright.

“Possibly.”

Judging from his face, it’s better not to push for details, and Lancelot is not quite sure why, but he also does not want to spoil the celebration. Something else does not add up, though.

“Why did you go in the first place if you agreed not to?” he asks quietly. “How did you know it’s safe?”

There is a flicker of unease in the green eyes, something slightly haunted as Gawain rounds his shoulders.

“A hunch,” he throws his way curtly before turning around to bring one of the last sacks down.

Taken aback both by his reaction and the strange explanation, Lancelot hovers in uncertainty but, after a moment’s hesitation, starts dragging the crates down, as well. Something rattles in them, and from the sharp scent, he can tell one of the jars of preserves did not survive the journey. He is grateful it’s just some pickles lost this time and not one of the fey. Not Gawain.

“I will be back,” Kaze says suddenly, breaking the tense silence between them, before jumping down from the cart. When Lancelot gives her a glance, he sees her make the way to the tower where the dovecote is located. 

The unfortunately very familiar feeling of something flying entirely over his head makes Lancelot sigh softly, but he distracts himself with picking up another basket. In no time, they are done, the only crate left is the unwieldy one that Gawain picks up, refusing to let him help. 

It is then that the leader of the foreign fey rejoins them, his tumbling curls bouncing in tact with his steps. He brings with him the smell of sword oil, musk and horses, which is nothing out of the ordinary; but underneath it is a faint scent of blood, incense and roses that makes Lancelot glance his way.

“Need help?” the man asks, nodding at the crate and already grabbing at the other end to lower it into one of the unruly wheelbarrows the kitchen servants have unearthed from somewhere. The old things seem ready to fall apart, but, to Lancelot’s surprise, only creak ominously under the weight, otherwise holding up. The kitchen apprentice looks equally surprised as he wheels it away with speed, obviously trying to get it to the castle before the wheels give out.

“You have a knack for appearing at the end,” Gawain remarks mildly, leaping over the railing, then tilts his head as he briefly clasps the man’s shoulder. “I take it you are done charming my sister?”

“She’s your sister?” Priamus whistles quietly, looking genuinely bashful as he rubs at the back of his neck. “Damn, I apologise. You only told me about Nimue and Pym, I didn’t know you had a third one.”

“I don’t. That was Pym.”

“Ah,” the man scoffs with a lopsided smile, shaking his head. “She gave me a different name. What a little fox—must run in the family.” 

“She’s a sworn one, so that’s just your charm failing you, oh the knight of the cart. And don’t pretend it is going to stop you.”

“You know me too well,” the man replies with a feigned sigh, then throws a sharp glance at Lancelot. “I, however, barely know anyone here. Will you introduce me to the lady?”

“Not a lady,” Lancelot bites out before Gawain can as much as open his mouth.

In the ensuing awkward pause, the knight coughs into his fist, hiding a smile, before speaking. “Priamus, this is Lancelot. He is one of my best fighters. He is also previously of the Catholic faith, so you might find some common ground in that.”

“Is that so?” Priamus asks, raising his brows. There is not a hint of mockery in his voice, just sincere interest, and it makes Lancelot mellow out a bit. “Converted by Gawain, too?”

Lancelot pauses, wondering if the foreigner is aware of his reputation, before giving a small nod. “You can say so.”

“Well, that sounds interesting,” he mutters, eyes darting towards the longsword and the seax strapped to Lancelot’s belt. “You’re primarily a swordsman then? I would be glad to cross my blades with you, Lancelot. Perhaps we can learn from each other.”

A look of distinct unease crosses Gawain’s face. Lancelot, who has a vague suspicion there was more than one meaning to the phrase, glances between him and the strange, but undeniably charming knight whose easy smile actually looks genuine, which is a rarity. The silence deepens, even more noticeable for the fact that it only exists between the three of them, the rest of the crowd still murmuring excitedly as the guests mingle with the hosts.

“And I thought it was awkward in Nemos,” Arthur remarks breezily, startling all three of them.

“What the fuck!” Priamus exclaims, clutching at his chest and at his sword at once. “Where did you come from?”

“Unknown. Or are we talking about right now?”

“Arthur, stop being weird,” Gawain orders with a practised tone of a person who has to herd cats daily and has become proficient at the impossible. “Priamus, stop flirting. Lancelot...”

“Yes?”

“... No, actually, you are the only one who acts normal in this bedlam,” Gawain admits, sounding a bit surprised, which would have been hurtful if Lancelot was not aware himself of how often he makes people uncomfortable. He has been slowly making his peace with it, some of the sharp edges wearing down from the constant chafe, but there are plenty more he still has. “Arthur, could you please show Priamus to his chambers? There are some free ones in the eastern wing if I recall correctly. I will come to help you soon.”

“Sure thing,” Arthur nods, uncrossing his arms. “Come, Sir. And let me just say, I am quite curious about the sword you are carrying, is that a paramerion...”

Throwing Lancelot one last intrigued look, Priamus lets himself be drawn away by the merrily chirping Arthur. Lancelot follows them with his eyes until he feels the gentle brush of fingers against his elbow; when he turns his head, Gawain nods slightly at the edge of the courtyard, before moving away.

“Aren’t you needed here?” Lancelot asks quietly, following him, and the knight shakes his head, his face minutely morphing into a cold, worn-out mask as he answers. 

“They are distracted by what we brought. It’s safe for a bit.”

Together they reach the yard's border and then Gawain takes a sharp turn. When Lancelot follows, he finds himself in a shadowed nook that he never would have guessed is hidden here. It is a quiet, peaceful place, dried out vines creeping up the tiled roofs and overgrown walls enclosing them. 

The corner is barely large enough to fit five people — but now it’s just the two of them, and Gawain, apparently, has planned for that as he twirls them around and presses him into the wall, catching his mouth in a demanding kiss. 

With a surprised sound, Lancelot freezes, his heart beating wildly; in a moment, he opens his mouth a bit wider and inhales sharply, when Gawain deepens the kiss. It is unwise, so unwise to do it merely a dozen steps away from the crowd. But no one is here, and Gawain is right in front of him, warm, alive, his sharp scent and the rough way he kisses him tearing at his resolve.

When they break apart, Lancelot throws his spinning head back, blinded and breathless, and so, so relieved. 

“I did not know there was anything here,” he murmurs into the cloudless sky. “It doesn’t look like it from the outside.” 

“Yeah, I don’t tell anyone about this one,” Gawain chuckles, pressing another kiss into the corner of his mouth. “Mhm. You feel so good.”

Exhaling sharply, Lancelot glances down and swallows the words of protest. It does not seem right to break the quiet, intimate moment Gawain shares with him. Looping his arms around the knight’s neck, he bows his head.

“You, too,” he says, barely audible but earnest, but Gawain hears and hums in reply, low and warm, as he presses their foreheads together. 

“Sorry,” he murmurs. “I will let you go in a minute. Just wanted to feel you again.”

Blinking in surprise but not lifting his gaze, Lancelot gives a small nod. Tentatively, he reaches out to run his fingers down the nape of Gawain’s neck, carding through the slightly wet strands. Another low, deep hum follows, almost a rumble, as if he is stroking a dragon, then another firm, chaste kiss to his mouth, and Gawain pulls away. 

Lancelot, for the lack of a gentler word, panics. 

“No,” he blurts. “No, wait.”

Caught mid-movement, Gawain pauses, glances down at the hand grabbing at his forearm, then looks him in the eye. 

“Yes?” 

“Come back,” Lancelot pleads, flushing in shame at being so forward, but saying it anyway. “I—I like it.”

Taking a step back, Gawain wraps his arms around Lancelot in a warm, firm embrace and presses another kiss to his temple, right over the slightly sweaty, ruffed curls. “I do, too. But I have duties, little wren.”

Tracing his fingers over the front of the breastplate, the hardened leather gleaming dark, rich green in the shadow, Lancelot inhales deeply. There are fresh scratches, but other than that it is whole; untouched. The sight of it fills his head with buzzing noise which he tries to swallow down, his throat seizes momentarily before he finds his voice. “Of course, I just… sorry.”

“Don’t be,” Gawain murmurs, drawing back just enough to look at him again. Brushing his hair away from his forehead, he looks up, at the dry branches hanging over the heads. There is a bird there, chirping and twittering in rapid, silvery thrills. “It can wait for a bit.”

As they stand there, caught in this tender, hesitant embrace, shielded from the sun and the people by the bluish-grey shadow of the wall, Lancelot barely dares to breathe. He begins counting his heartbeats, but loses track of their erratic rhythm, and instead snuggles a bit closer against Gawain. 

The din of the crowd grows a bit quieter as the carts are unloaded, and the castle dwellers return to their routine, the loud thuds of the doors announcing their retreat into the halls. Sensing the time running out, Lancelot pulls away with a soft sigh, smoothing his fingertips down the green armour before parting them. 

“Tonight?” Gawain reminds, pressing a kiss to his knuckles, a warm, conspiratorial little grin on his lips that feels like a shared secret of its own.

“Tonight,” Lancelot confirms, sounding slightly out of breath, fingers twitching around the pommel of the sword resting against his hip. He has just helped unload a cart right after training for the entire morning; he is allowed to be a bit winded.

Squeezing his hand briefly, Gawain steps back, throws a cursory glance over the passage and walks away. The loss of his warmth is, once again, an acute feeling, only made worse by the chilly air. 

When the cold wind crawls under his cloak and freezes the wet fabric of his tunic, Lancelot shivers and winces, sharply reminded of the dire need of some hot water and soap.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter titl is from The Amazing Devil - Wild Blue Yonder.  
> The poem Kaze recites is an adapted version of "The Dagger" by Lermontov (the best English translation I could find online is [here](https://ruverses.com/mikhail-lermontov/the-dagger/54/)).  
> You can read more about Sir Priamus here. In the legends, he has been a Saracen prince converted to Christian faith by Gawain after their duel. I flipped the conversion to match Cursed verse but the rest stays more or less the same :)


	9. i'm going to blindfold myself, too

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The bit from “Have you brought that potion Polly gave you?” to "The candles are mercilessly bright..." comes close to explicit. Let me know if you think it should be moved, because I'm going to make an accompanying series of short, explicit texts for Chrysalis anyway. :)

The baths are deserted at this odd afternoon hour, which is a small mercy. Despite all the labour of the morning, he is brimming over with restless energy that feels like lightning coursing under his skin. Even hauling buckets and buckets of snow inside has not exhausted him as he had expected it would.

His chest heaving for air, Lancelot overturns the bucket, snow pouring into the wooden tub. Wiping the sweat off his forehead with one hand, he studies it for a moment, then gives a satisfied nod. 

Crouching next to it, he sticks his hand into the snow, bites his lip at the thrilling bite of the frost. The cold pierces him to the bone, and he almost moans, clutching it tighter. It smoothes out as he rolls it absently between his palms before it drips down his firmly clenched fingers. In a minute or two, the trickle of water has stopped. Waving his hand through the water, Lancelot gets up abruptly and pulls his shirt over his head before divesting of the rest of the clothes, letting them fall to the floor in careless little puddles of fabric.

When he plunges his foot into the water, he hisses and swears softly, then waits for a moment, before trying again. Green flickers over the walls of the baths, so blindingly bright in the dim light that Lancelot has to squint. His breath coming in soft little pants, he ventures again and finds that now he can cautiously put both his feet into the tub. 

Sweat beads his temples and trickles down, droplets landing with soft splashes into the water. Shivering, he lowers himself, both hands clasping tightly at the rough edge. The water is still chilly, making his skin break out into goosebumps. He sits in it, brow furrowed in concentration and lips pressed into a thin line, until the steam starts to rise, fogging the room.

Breathing out — it is still difficult to control it and not let it explode like it did a couple of times before, levelling an entire grove at one memorable occasion — he leans back, propping the back of his head against the edge of the bathtub. For a moment, he studies the swirling steam above him, trying to make out the figures his mind often discovers in the meaningless alignments of shadows and angles, but it doesn’t come.

With a dejected sigh, he hunches in on himself again, pulling one knee closer to his chest and letting the other fall open. The water is clear between them, no murky rust—he has not bled in months. There is a distant tug of worry that something is wrong again, but as long as the cramps do not send him tumbling to the floor, he does not want to deal with that. Polly’s potions should work; at this point, there is nothing else he can do to make those broken gears rotate again.

Clasping his wrist, Lancelot tightens the grip until it hurts, savours the feeling of the protruding bone of the thin wrist, before sliding his palm up and interweaving his fingers together. For a moment, he plays into rearranging them, like parents do with children, making shadow wolves and birds spring to life with a flick of their wrist.

He likes mimicking wings like that, the ridges of his fingers rubbing against each other. He splays them open, crosses them, marvelling for a moment at how the shapes align, before letting them fall apart, coming together in something different.

Out of all the parts of him, after hands, he likes his legs the most, because they, too, immediately tell stories about him without having to say a word. There are bruises from training, faint old scars from the blades — his, others. From branches, too, a couple of deeper ones from all the time he has spent running around in the dense thicket of the woods.

The space between them is—well. It is the only place that knows how to feel good out of nothing, which is almost magic, if you ask him, and at least it is not as ridiculously vulnerable and, if he is frank, more than a bit silly looking, as those of men who were born as such. He has never understood why they seem so proud of those—it feels good to not have any outward indication of what one is, in his opinion. Makes one… a clean slate. A promise. There is something calm, pure, detached—angelic in it.

Sometimes he wishes just for that—to not have any sign of belonging to anything, to not have to make this choice at all. But if he had to make one, if he could, then he would have cut and carved himself into a chimaera. A mythical creature — half-man, half-woman. Lithe, smooth and firm, like a steel blade, or a shard of ice.

No matter how they call him or where they put him to sleep, he is not a woman. But, if he is honest, he does not feel like a man, either. He insists on being called such, because it makes it easier to fight, which he loves doing, and scares away people who want to get him chained between the oven and the bed, always heavy, always tethered to the ground. 

He would rather die than endure such humiliation; the mere thought brings nausea. Contradicting their word for him helps to shift the ideas of the mulish oafs that surround him, pull them a bit closer to what he really is.

What he really is, is Lancelot. He is just that — Lancelot. Caught somewhere in between, always walking the tightrope, one sword bridge after another. He finds twilight the easiest to dwell in, because that’s what he is — not yet a night, but not a day, either. A sliver of moon that is still hanging in the spring dawn sky when the sun has long risen.

Absently, he raises his fingers to his throat, brushes his fingertips over the protruding cartilage, then slides it down to the dip between collar bones. It is warm, and his heart echoes there, so he speaks to it for a moment in silence, resting his fingers on the fluttering pulse. Once they seem to come to an agreement, he trails his fingers down, hesitantly brushing his knuckles over the sensitive, soft tips.

Wincing, he draws his fingers away. The sensation lingers, itching and wrong, making something sour settle in his stomach and something dark cover his thoughts. Annoyed at it, he tries to banish it by roughly scratching over the pale skin, leaving raised red lines behind. It is not yet harsh enough to draw blood, but it is close. Sometimes, it does cross the edge. The urge is still there, but it’s less now, his craving for self-destruction somewhat sated after the breakdown.

The scars from that itch, too, the faint red criss-cross pattern of them adorning his shoulder like a banner of riotous self-hatred. One of them, a deeper gash, is bruising a bit, a sullen-looking spot of blue. Gawain will probably ask, he thinks with a wince. It is a two-fold worry — just like the rest of him is. If he is asked about it, he either has to hide behind an awkward lie or pronounce a pitiful truth. If he is not asked, it means Gawain is fine with him doing that, which is — he does not want to be stopped, but… It would be nice…

Sighing, Lancelot leans back, the water swaying softly. It would be nice to be asked. Somehow, he always has the answers to the questions he is not being asked and not to the ones that actually find him, always pulling the rug from under his feet. 

Wiggling his toes, he remembers the feeling of the fingers digging into his soles, fierce dull pain that flared up, echoing in a heat pooling under his navel, an involuntary flutter of muscles between his legs. It is strange, how the ache makes him feel so — the same way he got slightly light-headed from slashing his own skin. 

Reaching down, Lancelot presses hesitantly into the same spot Gawain did, rubbing at the sore tendon. It emanates the same pain that morphs into pleasure, radiating up and making him arch a bit. It does not subside when he stops, just rests, heavy and silent, in the pit of his stomach and under the dark wet curls. 

With an angry sniffle, he tries to ignore it, stubbornly pressing into the sore spot again. Biting his lip to muffle the groan, Lancelot presses harder and shifts. He is flushed, and hot water is only half the reason now — his body catches fire from rubbing against itself, against water and air even, it seems. The heel of his curled up leg is pressed against his inner thigh — and even that is too much.

With a defeated sigh, he throws his head back, pauses, then slips his fingers down. It is not enough, his wrist hurts from the awkward angle, and it was so much nicer when Gawain… It doesn’t do anything without him, as if it is merely a loose gear instead of the entire machine. 

Swearing obscenely, Lancelot pulls his hand away and squeezes his eyes shut, trying to catch his breath. The laughing, heated green eyes mock him even when they are not in front of him, the memory of the languid caress making him writhe. Eager to escape the ghosts of gentle fingers on his skin, he grabs the edge of the bath for purchase and pushes up abruptly, water trickling down his body in sparkling winding rivulets.

_… Would Gawain lick it off, too?_

Groaning, Lancelot presses the hands to his face in a vain attempt to get a grip on himself.

“Fucking hell,” he murmurs, taking his hands away and stumbling out of the tub with very little grace. It takes him a moment to hastily dry off just enough to not catch a cold on the way, tug on the clean garments and then he runs out of the door.

Passing through the hallways, he hears the fragments of rumours, excited murmurs about the late Yule feast, but pays them little attention—it hardly concerns him, anyway, unlike tonight. Water droplets trailing after him, he flees to his room as if chased by the hounds of the pits, not by the laughing, golden, green ghost. Perhaps the holy books were right; they are one and the same, the sly smile and red hair of a fox, and those of a devil—but no. 

What feels so right cannot be wrong, Lancelot tells himself, turning the key to his room as quietly as he can with his shaking hands. It is just a habit that he maintains partly because of his unfortunate neighbour, who, he has noticed, developed a habit of spying on him. At least, judging by the silence and lack of cloying sweet perfume, Elaine is not there right now.

The door closes with a soft thud, and the tension drains out of Lancelot’s shoulders as he leans against it, taking a look around the chamber and trying to figure out what exactly he has to do now. Warmed up and blissfully clean, he moves in dance-like steps, twirling once or twice in a softer version of pirouettes he has practiced for his footwork. 

The advantage of having exactly two sets of clothes, namely, the dirty and the clean, is that he does not have to choose. The next step is weapons, and there he pauses briefly but then straps the sword on anyway. They are still under siege, for all that blooms amid the war.

As he dries his hair with a rough towel, small blue flowers running down its hem, his gaze falls on the yellowed pages of the book he has stolen out of the library under the approving gaze of Gawain. One line stands out, and as he reads it, his hands slow down.

_Humankind cannot gain anything without first giving something in return. To obtain, something of equal value must be lost._

“I thought you were supposed to be about alchemy,” he reproaches the book softly, dabbing the towel at his hair one last time before picking up a brush. “Not… life.”

It is another word that begs to be spoken, yet he shuns it out of the light, his tongue not turning to pronounce it as if there are sounds in it that he is not familiar with. Banished, it settles in his chest and aches there, closes his throat with an iron grip in silent retaliation. Perhaps, the poem was right. It will break his heart unless he sets it free. 

With a soft exhale, Lancelot throws his head back, stares unseeingly at the ceiling for a long moment, then looks down again. Swallowing thickly, he considers the array of knives laid out on the table in front of him, a sharp fan of steel blades. The cross is laying on top of them, gleaming softly in the dim light filtering through the window. It is as silent as it has always been.

For Lancelot, however, the silence is never that simple.

“Fuck you, Father,” he spits out quietly. “Just shut up already. What would you even know about such things? You never—you never loved me. You just used me—and Gawain is not like that. I am of no use to him as a lover, I don’t have anything but my skills with a sword. If he wants that, he has Kaze, but he doesn’t—doesn’t sleep with her, he wants—me, and it means… It means he wants me. He doesn’t—get angry, or force me, he’s… He’s good. You were wrong about him. You were wrong about so many things. And even if I make a mistake—well. At least it will be my mistake, this time.”

Wiping his eyes roughly with the back of his hand, he lets out a shaky breath. For another painful heartbeat, he stands there, calming his breath, then gives a short, jerky nod to himself and drops the cross into the chest of clothes, letting it get lost between the folds of fabric. 

It only takes him another moment to grab the vial that also rests there, and then he pushes off his knees and yanks the door of his room open, intent on finding Gawain and finally making that leap of faith.

~

While he carefully prowls through the galleries and staircases to the knight’s chambers, he feels like a hunter who has been tracking the wolf only to find it standing right behind his back. However, the vaguely ominous atmosphere of poorly lit, drafty hallways shatters when bright, delighted laughter erupts from behind the closed door, the narrow strip of light falling from under it on the polished stone of the floor. One of the voices definitely belongs to Gawain, but he does not immediately recognise the other. 

Taken aback by it, Lancelot blinks and freezes, wondering if he shall come back later, even though he is not sure he can because all this courage he has summoned might evaporate by then. For a minute, he hovers near the door, glancing first at it and then at the chasm of the hallway, open wide like jaws of a stone whale.

Taking a deep breath, he raises his fist and knocks. It is quiet, as if he subconsciously gives them an excuse not to hear—but after a moment, the voices grow louder, accompanied by footsteps now. 

He barely has time to step out of the way before the door flings open, revealing snickering Gawain and Priamus.

“Lancelot,” Gawain breathes out, before he takes a step back, one hand still resting on the doorframe. “Come in—Priamus just came by for a minute.”

“Indeed,” Priamus grins, tugging his cloak tighter around his frame. “Such disproportionate use of time, I almost got lost in this freezing ruin twice on my way.”

Their eyes and smiles are brighter than Lancelot is used to seeing in the ravaged lands of Anglia, tired and numb from war and unrest; they gleam like shards of sunlight promising a way out of the underground maze. It is alluring, but there is something hawkish and harsh that makes him pause, glancing between them.

Edging past him with caution, Lancelot looks up at Gawain, wondering how they should act now. The knight’s smile softens, as he touches his elbow, nodding at the table where a woven bottle of wine stands, a handful of dimly gleaming coins surrounding it.

“It’s alright, Lance,” he mutters quietly. “Come, sit. Do you want anything to drink?”

Lowering himself on one of the chairs, Lancelot shakes his head, then pauses and nods. The easy grace with which Gawain moves makes the most mundane things look like magic. As if summoned by a spell, the wine pours into his goblet, quickly draining out of the already half-empty bottle. 

“Take whatever you want,” Gawain remarks softly. “I’ll just find someone to walk him back and then I am all yours.”

“Alright,” Lancelot nods, glancing at the wine. His mouth is dry as desert, but he hesitates, waiting until everyone turns away from him.

There is a scatter of small dried apples on the table, and he absently picks one up, rolling it between his palms. Grounded by it, he watches Gawain move back to the door and turn to his friend again.

“The night guard should be here in a bit, he will take you to your chambers.”

Priamus just nods, seemingly unbothered, and continues studying him with an unreadable expression on his face.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” Gawain asks in a low voice, tilting his head as he cradles a goblet in between his palms, weathered knuckles contrasting with the old, dimmed silver covered in elaborate engravings.

“You are growing feral in these northern lands of yours,” Priamus notes, shaking his curls and gesturing emphatically with one hand. “You shall go back to Constantinople with me once we solve this mason’s crusade problem.”

Having barely tasted the wine, Lancelot hastens to put the goblet down, wiping at his mouth with the back of his hand. Unable to sit still at the prospect of learning about the famous city, he shoots up and edges closer on silent feet. His eyes dart to Gawain, who silently takes a sip, without giving a reply, then back to Priamus, who leans against the wall with one eyebrow arched and arms crossed. 

Clutching at the hem of his sleeve, Lancelot takes an inhale.

“You have been to Constantinople?” he blurts, making both men look at him in slight surprise. “Is it—is it how they describe it?”

“Why, yes, it is magnificent and so very lively,” Priamus nods with a small smile that is more polite than warm as if he has said this exact phrase a thousand times before. “I presume you would be interested in hearing about the attires—or perhaps religious sites?”

“The art in them,” Lancelot corrects impatiently and ignores the flicker of surprise that crosses the man’s face. Thankfully, it is a very brief one, almost at once replaced by the same friendly, easy smile from before that now seems more genuine. “Have you seen Sancta Sophia?”

“More than once,” Priamus says, and then his eyes grow slightly dreamy, a wistful smile appearing on his face. “It is a marvellous sight to behold. One can spend a life admiring it if I dare say so.”

“Have they really built a pendentive dome?” Lancelot asks with bated breath, and, when the man pauses, then nods, he briefly presses a hand to his mouth to stifle a gasp. “Oh, God. And those — black and white opus sectile? The golden mosaics? Is it all really there?”

Here it is again, this intrigued look shining in the dark eyes as Priamus tilts his head. 

“Indeed,” he confirms slowly, his smile fainter now, but his eyes twinkling brighter. “They are stunning; true masterpieces in every gallery, on every wall. I don’t think anything I’ve ever seen can compare to it.”

“Where else have you been? San Miguel de Escalada? Or—or Hagios Demetrios?”

“Both,” Priamus nods with barely restrained laughter brimming in his voice. “Are you an artist, yourself?”

“I—I hope to be. Can you tell me about what you’ve seen?” Lancelot pleads which he does not do it often, these days, but it’s _Sancta Sophia’s golden mosaics._ He would kill to get there and take a look himself.

“I would be delighted to tell you all about my travels,” Priamus winks at him with an easy grin, making Lancelot pause and look him up and down again, wondering if he is reading too much into it. “But I hope you can forgive me if it has to wait another day—I am, frankly, exhausted after today. As I was telling Gawain, we only found out where you were a day ago and had to ride hard to get here in time.”

“Yes, yes,” Gawain rolls his eyes with a fond grin, putting the empty goblet away. “And as I was telling you, more than once, we are forever grateful. Now, Priamus, I would appreciate it if you stopped flirting with my most promising squire. Go rest, recover—the entire castle is at your disposal. Baths included.”

“That is not subtle at all, Gawain,” Priamus remarks, scrunching his nose in disapproval and crossing his arms. 

“No,” Gawain agrees readily, his smile slightly forced. “But neither is your scent.” 

“That’s not true,” Lancelot argues with a faint frown. “He smells like roses. It is nice.”

There is a long, heavy pause, in which Priamus’ eyebrows slowly climb up, his grin widening, while Gawain’s face moves in the exact opposite direction.

“Is it,” Gawain wonders in an absent voice. “I haven’t noticed.”

“It’s because at times you are dreadfully unobservant, my friend,” Priamus declares with pity, patting him on a shoulder before drawing away with an exaggerated yawn. “Apologies—seems like I am even more tired than I realised. Is that your guard down there? Perfect, I’ll go bother him instead. And Lancelot? I am looking forward to having a conversation with you. For now, I bid you both good night.”

With that, he gives them a bow and spins around to stroll down the hallway. There was nothing at all in his tone to indicate that the words are meant to be anything but respectful, but a knowing gleam in his eyes made Lancelot distantly aware that usually, he would have blushed. 

He doesn’t feel like doing so. What he does feel like is slamming Gawain against the wall and kissing him until he draws blood, then licking it away and kissing him more. He doesn’t, though, not only because the door is still open and Priamus has barely moved out of sight, but also because the lines of Gawain’s face are tense, a shadow darkening his forehead as he studies the floor.

“Just a moment, Lance. Priamus?” he calls out, bowing down to pick up something glinting—another coin—then turning around and marching out of the door. “You forgot something.”

Taking a small sip of wine, Lancelot tries to calm down his raging heart. He can hear the two men talk, even though they keep their voices low, and Gawain’s has lost most of its mirth.

“Alright, I know it is crude of me but let me be clear,” the knight says. “You can charm the entire castle, down to the last stableboy, but Lancelot is out of reach.”

“Oh?” Priamus asks with delight. “Is that a challenge?”

“No. Quite the opposite.”

There is a short, tense silence that makes Lancelot slowly put the goblet down and shift to the edge of his seat. Carefully toeing his boots off, he listens to the tense silence as Priamus considers his reply.

“... You have it bad, don’t you?” he asks in a hushed voice.

“You can’t even imagine,” Gawain replies tersely.

Unable to sit still anymore, Lancelot gets up and walks silently back and forth, his feet sinking into the thick fur of the pelt strewn across the floor. Finally, he hears Priamus draw a long, deep inhale. 

“Alright,” the man concedes with a sigh. “So, downsides of visiting you: the cold is unbearable, and all the fascinating people are spoken for. Speaking about the cold, why the Highlands, Gawain?”

“Ask my grandfather, who built this castle—if you meet his ghost on the way. Which you might. Good night, Priamus.”

Pausing his pacing, Lancelot frowns as he gnaws at his knuckle, then decides Gawain must be joking. He has never heard of any ghosts haunting the castle, and surely he would have, by virtue of knowing Percival, who, no doubt, would break his own neck trying to meet one. 

Besides, here, in the heated room draped in furs and flickering glimmers of the candles, faint pleasant smell of wine drifting up from the goblet and pinewood crackling in the hearth, there is no place for any grim shadows. Only—life, and… and the other thing. 

His chaotic, frantic musings are interrupted by the soft footsteps that approach the door, which creaks, letting Gawain in.

When it closes, Lancelot stands in silence for a moment longer, watching the knight, who briefly presses his forehead against the wood before giving him an askance glance and a wry grin. His eyes are darker now, not the impenetrable hard jade or shifting sparkling foliage, but two flickers of enchanted fire Lancelot so likes experimenting with.

“Alone at last,” Gawain says, his voice low and teasing before it softens. “Everything alright?”

Lancelot replies with a nod, already shifting to come closer. Stopping in front of the knight, he raises his hand and traces his fingertips right under those malachite eyes, the tender skin so soft and vulnerable. This close, Gawain’s face is a slightly blurred landscape of golden and light sepia, flickers of fire gliding over it. 

Their proximity is a raw, powerful feeling, thrumming in the air between them and piercing his hand, guiding it to be gentler than he is used to. It seems to work, draw some of the tension out of Gawain, judging by the way his shoulders drop.

“Are you going to run off tonight, too?” he asks in a low voice, tilting his head a bit and the slopes of his face shift slightly under Lancelot’s fingertips but do not pull away. It is as if he is giving him permission to be gentle, to explore as much as he wants, and it makes Lancelot burn up.

“No,” he replies curtly, and leans closer, brushing his mouth against Gawain’s, enjoying the tingling, teasing glide for a moment, before he changes the angle just enough to deepen the caress.

The instant their tongues touch, which still feels slightly obscene, it is as if a lock has been broken, boiling waters of a rip tide bursting free as they latch onto each other. The heat and ferocity of the kiss grow so fast it might have been frightening, if only he was not the one giving as good as he gets.

They collide with too much force, and it is just right. Wrangling his head to the side under the pretence of taking a breath, Lancelot pushes his way out of their embrace, twists around and then shoves Gawain back, pressing him against the door and biting his lip. 

The quiet, surprised gasp that escapes the knight’s mouth thrills him to the bone, makes him purr as he bites again. The warm, rough hand lifts to cradle his cheek but does not stop him, and he sighs softly, before diving back. Distantly, he hears the lock of the door click as Gawain closes it without pulling away from the kiss; then both his hands come to rest on Lancelot’s waist, pulling him closer.

When they break apart, Lancelot is out of breath, the blissed-out haze in his head making him shiver. Without saying a word, Gawain pushes off the door and walks him backwards until he hits the edge of the table with his thighs. He does not feel anything but the impact, and then he wraps a leg around Gawain’s hips, urging him to slot their bodies together in a way that knocks the air out of his lungs.

It is bordering on violent, this delight, and Lancelot cannot get enough of it.

His clothes chafe on his skin; he aches to shed them, feeling as if he is growing out of them, as if they are suddenly constricting his every breath. He feels like a snake, restless and ravenous, writhing under the rough, skilled hands that, blessed they be, have begun to strip him.

“I know you see it as a risk. But I promise you, you will gain more than you lose,” Gawain mutters in his neck, as he unlaces his tunic, the simple knots falling apart fast in his deft fingers. “In fact...”

“I know,” Lancelot interrupts, twisting around to catch his mouth in a hungry short kiss. Letting go, he inhales deeply, feeling as if he is caught on the ridge of a sea wave, rising high just before being thrown down. “To obtain, something of equal value must be lost. It’s—how it works. Besides, I can always just stab you if this entire thing turns out wrong.”

There is a beat of silence in which his heart falls just as the colour drains slightly out of Gawain’s face. It is almost not noticeable in the mellow light of the room, but Lancelot catches it anyway, and the air is chilling on his skin when he shrugs out of the tunic.

“It’s a joke,” he clarifies in a small voice.

“No, I got that,” Gawain replies, a bit too fast, stroking his knuckles over Lancelot’s bare side.

“I will never hurt you,” Lancelot adds, a hint of desperation creeping into his voice. He really, really needs the knight to believe him, he realises as he yanks at Gawain’s swordbelt, loosening it and then putting the scabbard aside, leaning it against the chair. 

There is a small, barely audible intake of breath, a strange look in the green eyes as they stare unseeingly somewhere above his shoulder.

“I am glad to hear it,” Gawain murmurs in a far-away voice, before snapping out of it and drawing him a bit closer, a familiar roguish grin resurfacing on his face. “And I would not do anything that could dishonour you. So how about we limit the stabbing to only a pleasant one for tonight?”

Scoffing, Lancelot shakes his head with a shaky exhale that could generously be described as weak laughter. “That was awful.”

“I know,” Gawain grins wider, nosing at the tender spot under his ear as he loosens Lancelot’s belt. “But it made you laugh.”

Fighting back a smile, Lancelot drops the belt to the side, a long ribbon of old leather falling in circles on the floor and pushes his trousers down, shivering when Gawain tugs them off and slides a hand over the bare skin of his thigh. 

Pulled down by a tender hand clasped around his wrist, Lancelot lowers himself on the edge of the bed, curling up a bit on himself as Gawain rolls down his socks. Trying to distract himself from the way his treacherous stomach clenches at the gentle caress to his ankles, he glances up, studying the red velvet of the curtains. 

As he inhales deeply, he catches the faint scent of roses still lingering in the room — it is dissipating fast, though; Priamus obviously has not spent enough time here, and it settles his raised hackles.

“You haven’t told me you travelled so much,” Lancelot remarks in a soft voice, and then gasps, when the warm hand wraps around his foot and squeezes it gently.

“Yes, I’ve been to all these places, too,” Gawain sighs, pulling briefly away to place his clothes on the bedside table. “I just don’t flaunt it to dazzle pretty little wrens.”

Leaning back a bit and swaying his knee from side to side, his eyes still trained on the velvety red folds, the gleams of fire gliding over the fabric, Lancelot nods. “You just read poetry to them in deserted libraries.”

A small smile crinkling the corners of his eyes, Gawain shakes his head and chuckles, warm and low: “Guilty as charged.”

“You also pour them wine. Can I have some more?”

With a nod, Gawain sits up, reaching to the table to pour the last dredges into a goblet, and Lancelot uses the opportunity to study him. His hair is a mane of tiny flames, but there is nothing devilish in it; it feels safe, like watching the fire in the hearth—not tamed, but benevolent. Picking up the goblet, he hands it to Lancelot, who gulps it greedily under the heavy, heated green gaze. 

“Was it not to your liking?” Gawain asks, tugging at the lacings of his own tunic. “You seemed… rather appreciative of my ideas.”

Putting the goblet away with a soft thud, Lancelot gives a decisive nod. The wine, sour and heady on his tongue, lends him the last bit of courage he needed.

“I was.”

It seems to surprise Gawain — but not as much as when Lancelot scoots closer and lifts his hands to help him untie the lacings. The sharp intake of breath is his reward, and he shivers at it but does not look up from the knots coming apart one by one. 

It is still new, this dance of undressing each other, but they have already done it once before and so at least the pattern is established. The linen splits apart and unravels faster this time, falls away in a hurried, gentle rustle as they bare each other. 

The furs are soft under his back when Lancelot falls backwards. When Gawain joins him, caging him in, it makes his heart accelerate, frantic mind mapping out the weak points — there are so many they both have right now, exposed to each other. Some of his unease must reflect on his face because Gawain slows down, shifts to lay by his side instead.

“May I touch you there as well?” he asks, trailing his fingers down Lancelot’s collarbone. “You might like it.”

In the next moment, his teeth sink deep in Lancelot’s neck, urging him to arch up with a pleased mewl, but halfway through a hand sneaks up his side and over his ribs, and he gasps, jerking away in surprise.

“Don’t—it’s wrong.”

“Who told you that?” he wonders, fingers skimming up his ribs, circling and rubbing as if he wants the skin to catch fire. It only serves to remind Lancelot all too vividly he has a very physical, very tangible and shameful vulnerability that always feels too wrong, too—full, as if it is something that was slapped on him as an afterthought, an idea that did not work out. Two of them, in fact, and they might not be anything to be proud of—he definitely isn’t—the women said as much—why does it matter—he just doesn’t like being degraded for something he can’t even change, just another thing wrong—

—but no matter what he feels about them, they are still sensitive enough to make him writhe. In truth, he is trying to escape the touch, tries to forget he can feel these things—right up until Gawain switches his tactic and slides an open, firm palm to his ribs instead of focusing all his attention on one spot. 

This—it’s not as bad as before. It no longer feels like someone yanks at rotten strings in his stomach. It’s more like an embrace that just—flows around his body in a way that doesn’t restrain it, but follows the line of it. It’s almost pleasant.

Lancelot breathes out heavily then, pausing in his attempts to get away, and listens for a moment longer to his own body, before giving up on that cacophony of feelings, and laying back. An insistent thought tugs at his mind, an urge to fight back but he shoves it down, the elusive whispers in his head reminding him he does not deserve it. They hold his hands down and point out that he is not being hurt. It must be good enough.

Though Gawain doesn’t seem to think so.

“Lance, do not dare simply endure this,” he murmurs, taking his hand away. “What’s wrong? Too fast? Too much?”

Still rendered speechless by the onslaught of feelings, Lancelot gives a stiff, small nod. He expects to be chastised, mocked — but Gawain simply draws him into a slow, careful embrace.

“Alright,” he murmurs in his ear, pressing a soft, gentle kiss under it. “No more, then.”

Letting out a relieved sigh, he immediately hides his face in the crook of Gawain’s neck. An apology leaps to his tongue, but he keeps it back and does not utter a word. If there is one thing he knows, it is that he is not wrong about this.

“Can you do—what you did yesterday?” he wonders quietly because with the attention Gawain has shifted to his neck, his fingers, his back, the demanding heat in him flares up again. It feels as if it is not given what it wants, a sacrifice to the flames, it is going to devour him, instead. 

“Of course.” 

~

“Have you brought that potion Polly gave you?” Gawain murmurs, and Lancelot nods with slight trepidation, reaching for his discarded belt and placing the bottle into Gawain’s palm. It seems to be the correct thing to do, judging by the appreciative low hum he lets out before biting into Lancelot’s neck, right under the ear. “Did she explain the rest or..?”

“She did,” Lancelot manages to say, while his hands are living their own life, clasping the man’s forearms and hesitantly finding their way to his waist. Tilting his head a bit, Gawain presses closer, in an obvious move to encourage his exploration. Lancelot happily takes an opportunity, marvelling at the way the other’s body feels under his palms, soft skin over hard slopes, as if someone threw thin velvet over marble. 

“Did you ask her yourself?” Gawain asks, quiet and amused, a soft popping sound following as he uncorks the vial. 

When Lancelot answers, he stutters slightly because he is not sure he is supposed to be preparing for this the same way he does for the foray into the enemy’s territory. “Yes. I wanted to be—ready—when you sleep with me.”

“Strictly speaking you already slept with me,” Gawain notes under his breath, and then says _ow_ when Lancelot pokes a bit too viciously into the almost faded bruise on his side.

“Don’t make fun of me,” he scowls.

“It’s not fun I make, wren,” Gawain says seriously, tilting his chin up with a hooked finger and pressing a firm but chaste kiss to his mouth. He pauses, his fingers resting lightly against the vulnerable skin, stroking gently over it. 

“May I?” he asks quietly.

 _Neither rare nor good,_ Lancelot reminds himself, and exhales, allowing the thrumming warmth to take over his mind. 

With a short, decisive nod, he pushes up, twists from under Gawain and straddles his hips.

“Yes.”

The green eyes do not shift, tethering him to reality as he raises slightly on his knees. He is not sure where to look or what to do, but to his relief Gawain reaches down to take over. With the slow gentle caress on the small of his back, soothing his racing heart as he glances down, it is all so different from what he imagined.

“Almost there, Lance,” Gawain murmurs, barely audible, as he leans up to kiss him. Lancelot knows it to be a distraction, but he accepts it, tries to focus on it as Gawain guides himself inside. 

Through the haze of their kiss, he barely notices anything, just his body resisting for a moment before opening up. It goes easier after that. In fact, it is too easy. 

Glancing down, Lancelot frowns. It feels strange to be joined like this, have something foreign in his body that found its place in him and rests there, the strangely complimenting hardness to his softness.

“Why doesn’t it hurt?”

“Why should it?” Gawain asks calmly, raising his hands to put it on his hips and stop him from trying to draw away.

“But—why is there no blood?” Lancelot sputters, fidgeting a bit and then sucking the air in sharply at the feeling, his knees sliding apart on the pristine white sheets. 

There is a very short pause that would have made him want to crawl away if it wasn’t for the gentle, slow stroking over his hips that keeps him a bit more grounded and stops him from jumping out of his own skin.

“It happens sometimes,” Gawain says finally in a gentle, soothing tone, sounding as if he is trying to choose the next words carefully. “With how you train…”

“What?” Lancelot bristles. “What does that have to do with anything?” 

“Easy, Lance.” Shifting under him, Gawain inhales slowly, his thighs flexing as he raises his brows in a pointed gesture. “You… were not a virgin.”

“What do you mean I was not?” Lancelot asks, a slightly hysterical note slipping into his voice. “How?”

“Easy, easy, there is nothing wrong… Oi! Stop biting—wait. It can happen—when a woman—”

With a low growl trapped in his throat, Lancelot bares his teeth, but Gawain clenches his jaw and narrows his gaze in reply before finishing:

“—when a woman rides, or fights. And some are just born like that.”

“What..?” he repeats desperately, tightening his grip on the firm shoulder as he looks down again. “That—is that possible?” 

Gawain nods. Lancelot is silent for a long, long moment—or at least it feels like one, but by the count of Gawain’s measured breaths, it has only been two or three.

“You are saying,” he says, at last, “that all this time...”

“Look at the bright side,” Gawain murmurs, pushing up to sit and lean against the pillow squashed between his back and the headboard. Tucking a stray curl behind Lancelot’s ear, he gives him a small, encouraging smile. “If figuratively speaking, your sword took your maidenhood, then you do not have to worry about it now.”

Under the deep, slow caress down his neck, Lancelot sags a bit. “It is — it really is my first time, you have to...”

A hand smoothens down his spine, over the tense muscles, and Lancelot falls silent. 

“Ssh, wren. It would not matter if it wasn’t; but believe me, I know. You’re… very innocent,” Gawain murmurs fondly.

His face hidden in the crook of the knight’s neck, Lancelot huffs softly and then grows quiet again, studying their new alignment, trying to understand how it works. It is distracting to have his body pull and push in rhythm with the slow, deep drag of Gawain’s hips; it starts to feel like more. 

So when Gawain adds something quiet, Lancelot, whose focus is firmly set on everything happening inside him, frowns, turning his head. 

“What..?”

There is a short pause before Gawain lifts his eyes and repeats, clearer this time. “I said, not for long.”

He punctuates his words with another thrust, harder this time. Swallowing thickly and trying to hear anything over the rush of blood in his ears, Lancelot clings to the headboard to steady himself. The wood is solid and unmoving under his white-knuckled fingers, while the rest of the world is one wave after another, sweeping him under. 

“Don’t you want me to be…” He tries to ask. 

“No,” Gawain says simply, then leans closer, hoisting him up by his hips and then pulling him down, making him gasp and whimper. “You know what I want? I want you to come again when I am in you. Want to feel you when you do it—gods, you’re so… _Reactive._ So...”

The words that follow make Lancelot blush more fiercely than he ever has in his entire life.

“Gawain,” he forces out, robbed of air both by the words and by the insistent roll of the knight’s hips. “What the—you can’t just _say_ these things.”

“Well, I just did,” Gawain chuckles on a more careful upward thrust. “And nothing happened, see? Nothing is wrong—and it feels good, doesn’t it?” 

“Yes, but—I don’t know what to think,” Lancelot admits quietly, letting go of the headboard with one hand, moving experimentally to meet the knight halfway. He feels so... connected, and settled, which is a startlingly new feeling. It starts to feel different, as if the initial resistance has been broken, the shock wearing off and giving place to the acute need radiating from inside.

“Then don’t think,” Gawain murmurs in his ear, as he pauses and then lets go of his hips, allowing him to set the pace.

Lancelot wants to argue that it is impossible, but the next slow drag of their bodies against each other makes him reconsider. Fingers clasped tight on the hard, unyielding wood, his stomach clenching, he exhales sharply, taken aback by the thrill shooting from the base of his spine to the nape of his neck.

There is still something slightly off as if he sees everything in double vision, his thoughts tangled and his mind flickering between being bright and hard like steel and dark and soft like earth. He feels both at the same time, as if someone stuck a sword in a hill, pinning the writhing serpent of his mind down and now it is agonising, half-dead and half-alive.

But his frantic thoughts are silenced by a hungry, demanding kiss—and it leaves him so bloody, blessedly thoughtless, indeed.

~

The candles are mercilessly bright, the sheets are blissfully cold, and the world is a wonderful, mad kaleidoscope for Lancelot as lays on his back, chest heaving for air. 

Stroking his side and his stomach gently with an open palm, Gawain presses a soft kiss to his hair. “You’re alright there?”

All he can manage in reply is a quiet affirmative hum. Chuckling softly, Gawain rearranges his curls absently before drawing a deep inhale.

“I know you don’t want to admit your fears,” he begins quietly. “And we don’t have to talk about it. But I feel I must assure you...”

With his heart still thumping in his chest but the world back to its relatively normal alignment, Lancelot props himself up on his elbows and glances at Gawain, who falls silent, meeting his eyes. 

The fire in his belly rekindles as if it has not been doused, flaring up even higher. It does not seem to need any fuel but what his eyes see. It threatens to devour him whole unless he traps it with Gawain’s hands.

He twists to straddle the man again in a fluid, effortless movement. 

“I don’t have any more fears,” he declares under his breath, grabbing the firm shoulder for support as he rolls his hips languidly. “But if you want to assure me, you can move.”

A stunned look on Gawain’s face fills him with satisfaction so sharp and potent, it almost feels like he came again. Then a wolfish grin slowly spreads over the knight’s face as he grabs Lancelot’s hips to pull him down. 

“Gladly,” he replies, bucking his hips up. There are so many exciting angles and slopes Lancelot has never considered, so many thrilling discoveries made in these days, that he feels compelled to unearth every single spot. Right now, even the shallow glide of their bodies against each other sends sparks flying under his eyelids. 

The only bad thing is that Gawain slows again after a dozen thrusts. 

“You are not hiding it? You really do not worry?”

Having been robbed of the glorious feeling, Lancelot opens his eyes and narrows his gaze, all but hissing in annoyance. “I _will_ worry if you don’t fuck me again. I might also need to _hide_ something.”

After a short, fraught silence spent studying each other, Gawain grins and sags slightly into the pillows.

“Alright,” he breathes out, reaching down. “Give me a moment.”

When he shifts, planting his heels sturdier into the crumpled sheets, and in the following pause, the only sounds to fill the silence are his breathing growing heavier and the crackle of the fire. The frame does not creak, because it seems the furniture in the castle was built to last centuries and takes it very seriously, no matter what kind of activities its dwellers get up to.

Leaning back, Lancelot sighs and spreads his knees a bit wider, settling more comfortably as he watches, his eyes trailing down. They linger there for a moment, but then he lifts his gaze. As he studies Gawain’s face from under his eyelashes, the need keeps pooling in his stomach, dark boiling waters rising fast.

When they start to overflow, Lancelot follows the urge and leans closer. Sucking a hungry, harsh kiss into the warm sun-kissed chest, a bit to the right of the solar plexus, he murmurs, softly:

“Can I help?” 

~

It is so late in the night, it is probably fairer to call it early morning, but Lancelot is strangely not sleepy. He is in a daze, though, as he rests his cheek on Gawain’s stomach. It raises and falls steadily, a thrilling, precious proof of life and warmth that he considers in reverent awe, sliding his fingers up and down the trail of coarse hairs.

When the muscles under him shift, Lancelot looks up; he is momentarily stunned, air knocked out of his lungs by the intimate picture. With his lips bitten and hair falling in soft ringlets over his bright eyes, Gawain is undeniably beautiful. But there is still a lingering trace of unease darkening his forehead, and it makes Lancelot frown as well.

“Do you want me to worry?” he wonders, drawing away to sit up and tilting his head. “When I worry, people die.”

With a soft, warm chuckle, Gawain shakes his head and exhales heavily. Beckoning him closer with one hand, he waits until they settle again, before voicing his reply.

“I am well aware,” he breathes out, letting his head fall back into the pillow. Auburn hair haloed over the white, he gives Lancelot a wry grin. “However, I must say they can also get conceived.”

Shrugging with one shoulder, Lancelot nods at the bottle standing innocuously on the bedside table, the flickering gleams of fire dancing in the thick glass and illuminating the liquid. For dark magic, it has an awfully cheerful pink colour. “We have this potion for a reason.”

“Naturally, but as good as our healers are, it’s not infallible. If you conceive...”

“If I do, it won’t be easy, but I will manage,” Lancelot nods. “Truly, Gawain—for you, I am ready to do it. You don’t have to even… be there.”

“That’s what I wanted to say,” Gawain begins quietly, squeezing his hips a bit tighter and running his palms up. “You won’t be alone through it, I will stay and…” 

“I know you will,” Lancelot stops him, sliding down his body and wrapping himself around it, nuzzling into his chest. “I trust you to do the right thing. And… you are already here. With me. I am happy.” 

Gawain’s breathing is slow and measured in the ensuing silence—it is lulling, just like the sound of the embers snapping in the hearth and the wind whistling outside.

“Alright,” he hums finally, lifting his hand to card his fingers through Lancelot’s curls. 

With a pleased little rumble, he bumps his head into the open palm, wordlessly asking for more. For a long while, they simply rest in comfortable silence, the fire slowly dying in the hearth. Doors are opening and closing in the hallways all around them, someone shouting in the yard underneath — sounds like celebrations began early. All of it weaves into the familiar din of the castle that used to grate on Lancelot’s nerves, but now, in the warm embrace, it feels as if he was allowed to become a part of that, too.

But there are still duties to consider, as much as he wants to never leave this enchanted place, a shard of happiness frozen in time like a flower in an amber. 

“I probably need to go, or I’ll be late and Arthur will definitely say something weird,” he sighs, tearing himself away and trying to clear the haze in his head enough to remember where he has put his boots. They are nowhere in sight; Lancelot knows he has to get up and go search for them, as well as the rest of his clothes, but that mundane task seems dreadfully daunting right now. The mere thought of doing it drains all the strength out of him, and he hesitates at the edge of the bed for a moment too long.

Then a warm, heavy arm wraps around his waist to pull him backwards, and his heart soars in relief.

“Stay,” Gawain urges him gently, reinforcing his request with slow, gentle kisses. “I’ll help get them off your back for good.”

“For good?” Lancelot scoffs, already shifting to settle more comfortably against the firm expanse of Gawain’s chest, his hand coming to rest over the solar plexus, drawn by the warmth. He lets his palm absorb some of it before trailing it a bit to the right. “How? By murdering them?”

“Something like that,” Gawain replies with a small smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. Mesmerised by how close it is, how the tender red swells under the slight dip of the cupid bow, Lancelot reaches out to trace it without a thought. Brushing his fingertips over the corner of the enticing curve, he sharply, quietly sucks the air in and gives in, pulling up to close the distance.

“Thank you,” he murmurs softly, stroking over the short stubble, and Gawain smiles at him, warm and radiant like the summer sun Lancelot has somehow caught in his net in the middle of the winter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from "Шей" ("Sew") by Hellawes ([youtube](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=BTdgyaN5E2c)). I made a rough translation [here](https://docs.google.com/document/d/1oYPbK-YGbaaVf5ZYouEFkmfAzQcscG4zN61Lp59PBkQ/edit?usp=sharing).  
> Sword bridge is a reference to Chrétien de Troyes's "[Lancelot](https://www.gutenberg.org/files/831/831-h/831-h.htm#link2H_4_0006)", where he has to cross an actual sword bridge during a quest, severely injuring himself in the process.  
> "Neither rare nor good" that Lancelot recalls is a line from "Because" by Sara Teasdale ([read](https://internetpoem.com/sara-teasdale/because-poem/)): "and since the body's maidenhood alone were neither rare nor good unless with it I gave to you a spirit still untrammeled, too".  
> Also. A disclaimer, so to say, (potentially a bit spoilery), because I received several questions. :) Chrysalis!Lancelot is born a woman, identifies currently as a man, not trans, ideally does not want to be assigned any gender at all and dreams about having an androgynous body (he already has a pretty androgynous appearance). The vial contains a contraceptive potion. This story is not about him deciding to identify as a woman, neither it is about him seeking out the means to transform his body to that of a man. Just to avoid any accidentalf baiting. :) Also, because I know younger people read this story: "good enough" is _never_ an appropriate reaction to sex; Lancelot is just not in the right place yet to realise it. But please never count on your partner to notice your distress (they _should_ , but alas, it is not guaranteed). Not everyone is, you know, Gawain.


	10. such selfish prayers and I can't get enough

“Lance? Lancelot?” Pym calls out from behind the locked door of his room, and Lancelot startles violently, flailing his leg and nearly kicking Gawain in the face. He has not expected anyone to look for him—it’s late at night, most of the castle sleeping already—and was so caught up that he missed the light footsteps, which had never happened before.

When Gawain shifts and takes a deep inhale, Lancelot shoots him a warning look, then props himself up on his elbows and clears his throat.

“Yes?” he calls out. It comes out a bit strained, but he is sprawled half-naked on the coverlet hastily thrown on the floor because his bed is not enough to accommodate them both, so he should be allowed some slack.

Pym allows him none.

“I—uh, can I come in? I brought the thing you asked for.”

The thing. Freezing like a spooked deer, Lancelot glances at Gawain, who looks unfairly amused for someone who will also get caught in a compromising position. He probably doesn’t even consider it as such, Lancelot realises. 

“No,” he says, very firmly, and not in any way a squeal, then remembers himself and lowers his voice to its usual tone. “No, I will come to find you. Later.”

“Oh, alright,” Pym says, sounding perplexed for a moment before she makes a pause that does not bode well for his secrecy. Clenching coverlet in his fists in anxious anticipation, Lancelot can easily picture her frown, and indeed it is audible in her voice when she speaks. “Is Gawain with you?”

“No,” Lancelot says immediately, staring right at Gawain, who has settled more comfortably between his legs and is now shaking with silent laughter, which he muffles by biting into Lancelot’s thigh. “He’s not here. Why?”

There is a short moment of silence. It is as dubious and pointed as silence gets when you lie poorly to someone through a closed door. Lancelot would have been worried it was judgemental, but the gentle brush of Gawain’s fingers over his hips derails his descent into shame, soothing him while Pym answers:

“Just wanted to let him know we’ve just received a raven from Merlin; he arrives tomorrow.”

Making a valiant effort to focus on the words instead of the way Gawain licks up his knee, Lancelot clears his throat:

“I’ll tell him when I see him,” he promises earnestly, then waits until Pym mutters her thanks and departs, her light footsteps retreating to her room. 

With a shaky sigh, he falls back, throwing a hand over his face. He is not blushing, surprisingly even for him, but it still makes his gut twist to glimpse the laughter in Gawain’s eyes. It is a small mercy that the man keeps silent as he leans over to plant a soft kiss over his bare stomach, trailing little touches back down, as if slowly coaxing back out the tiny flames Lancelot felt in his stomach.

To Lancelot’s surprise, it works. When the touch of the chilly air of the room is replaced with the warm caress, Gawain’s silver tongue and silver-adorned fingers prying him apart, he calms. Slowly, he falls back, eyes instinctively seeking Gawain’s, the green of them sober and pensive. It is appealing, the way they never entirely lose this sharp spark, not even when he has Lancelot so caught in all these enticing snares he constructs of his clever fingers and cleverer tongue.

Despite the news, he does not seem in any hurry to depart, as he would usually do, focusing instead on drawing a string of little gasps out of Lancelot’s throat, kiss by kiss echoed.

“You won’t go?” Lancelot asks hesitantly, carding his fingers gently through the soft auburn hair; Gawain tilts his head to meet the caress and pauses, hand resting on the crux of Lancelot’s thigh.

“No need to. He will spell his way back — there is an anchor point nearby, even without the Sword, he can jump over the distance safely. Tonight is all ours.”

He reinforces the promise with a light, teasing touch, fingertips dancing over the tender skin before carefully sliding in. Drawing out the sweet torture, Gawain has not yet resumed in earnest what they have started, his mouth hovering close but not accompanying the hand yet.

“Why are you hiding it still?” he asks quietly, pressing another kiss on the inside of Lancelot’s thigh, the skin there so sensitive, despite the faint criss-cross of pale scars, that Lancelot jerks his knee, arching up for more without taking a hand off his eyes. “They know already. No one thinks less of you for that.”

“Maybe not,” Lancelot murmurs, swallows the little gasp hard. “But the less they know the better. It’s… yours. Not theirs.”

Sliding his hands under Lancelot’s hips, Gawain hums, low and quiet, and urges him up, bringing him closer to his red, thin mouth that curves in a smile, the words coming out of it in a hot whisper warming Lancelot up from inside.

“Should have said it before, but better late than never. I am touched by your trust, wren; let me prove it.”

~

“What was that thing that Pym brought, by the way?” Gawain wonders when they make it to his chamber and settle on the bed, both warm and hazy, drowning in soft furs and scent of sex. It is as potent as wine, this comfort, but Lancelot is still aware enough not to let his mouth run.

“Nothing important,” he musters as much nonchalance as he can, which is proving to be more and more difficult these days. It is strange to lie when you have already divulged so many secrets and shown so many vulnerable places.

Leaning back against the headboard of the bed, Gawain harrumphs quietly, his eyes half-closed, just a gleam of hazel. “Keeping secrets?”

“As if you are not,” Lancelot shoots back, wiggling down to rest his head on the man’s lap, and closing his eyes with a content sigh when Gawain strokes his hair.

The thing is nothing malicious, but he clings to his little secrets — literally little. It is just a pouch with salves to soothe his hands and cheeks, neglected to the point where his skin started to crack into a thin net of fine red lines. When he ended up having to lick his own blood off his knuckles, it began to count as damage enough to warrant his attention, so he enlisted Pym’s aid, with her unlimited access to healer’s supplies and knowledge of most of it. 

However, she smuggled in more things than he asked for, so in the end, there was a scatter of tiny bottles and jars and an hour-long lecture that Lancelot dutifully nodded along, far more thrilled at having someone talk to him than interested in the contents of the pouch. They smelled nice, and for him, their value ended at that. 

Among them, there was even a vial of scented oil, tiny petals suspended in thick golden liquid, which Pym said was the gentlest scent she could find. Answering with a polite nod, Lancelot resolutely refused to even look at the vial; he kept it, though, because gifts are gifts. Besides, Priamus seems to use them, and it definitely makes sparring with him a slightly more pleasant experience than with most men in the castle. And no one dares to say anything about him being unmanly — well, they do, but not to his face, and what they grouch in the armoury does not count, in Lancelot’s opinion.

Twisting and tossing around in search of a more comfortable position, Lancelot winces, his entire body aching, both pleasant and not, bruises from the severe training Kaze has put him through mingling with bruises Gawain left behind by sucking kisses in his skin. It feels as if he belongs to them both, with these dozen little tokens of care etched into him; he has never been happier, flushed and breathless and cheerful, claimed in a way that thrills him to the bone.

They want to keep him so close, trusted with so much of them, and it’s the most wonderful feeling to be let in finally. It seems even that Gawain truly does not seek other bedmates in the meantime, only their scents and a bit of Kaze’s when Lancelot takes a covert inhale, his face buried in a pillow. The gentle fingers skim down his spine, knuckles brushing over the scars and knobs, and he shivers, a small grin on his face.

“It feels good,” he remarks quietly, then sighs, fidgeting to bury deeper into the furs and the warm body behind him. “Is it alright that I sleep here so often?”

“Not alright,” Gawain murmurs sleepily, and panic barely makes it through before he finishes, drawing him closer. “Wonderful.”

~

It turns out that for all his exploration of the castle, Lancelot still was not aware of about a dozen or so little nooks and corners that, as he is rapidly discovering, are perfect for being kissed in.

Gawain tastes like rowan berries they have stolen from a branch on their scouting, a tangy hint that Lancelot chases with abandon until he runs out of air. Throwing his head back to briefly rest it against the wall and get the world to stop spinning around, he, in a valiant attempt to appear collected, does not react to the gentle bites Gawain trails down his neck. 

“Don’t you have a meeting with Merlin,” he points out, then contradicts himself by dragging Gawain closer for another kiss, harder than the first one. The rush of fighting the paladins they ran into is urging him on, gives his caresses a rougher, more desperate edge.

“It can wait,” Gawain murmurs against his lips, the words secondary to the fervent little touches, his still cold hands sliding under Lancelot’s cloak, drawing him closer.

He shivers in delight, cards both his hands through red hair still littered with snowflakes and relishes for a moment longer that he does not see any other red anywhere on the man’s skin before he brushes their noses together. “Nothing urgent?”

“No. It’s a small thing, just a—,” Gawain kisses him, again, slow and sweet, “—favour before he sets out for the lake.”

Nodding eagerly, Lancelot leans back, allowing better access, and closes his eyes, revelling in touch, stomach swooping when Gawain loosens the lacing at his throat, both from the fondness and the fact that he is trusted with the secret of the magician’s destination. He was shared in on a possible sighting of the young witch last night when he kept silently glaring at Gawain from under the covers until he caved in and explained why he woke up with a start after what seemed to be yet another frightening dream. Or, as Gawain phrased it, an unsettling one. Lancelot let him nurse his wounded pride and simply wrapped himself around him, trying to wordlessly communicate that any nightmare had to go through him first; after all, he is, as everyone unanimously agrees, the worst nightmare there is.

Gawain does not seem to think so, though. While Lancelot had just murdered several men with a bit of a feral flair, just to prove he did not become a feeble maiden because of what they are up to in bed, he is too distracted by chasing the gentle fingers brushing over his mouth to protest when Gawain calls him little wren again.

Sucking on them almost absent-mindedly, Lancelot looks to the side, mulling it over, while his tongue works in between slender digits, brushing over the cool silver of the rings. His inner debate is interrupted by a sharp intake of breath, and he looks up questioningly, letting go of the ring fingertip he kept between his teeth.

Tilting his head to the side, Lancelot studies the darkened, almost angry eyes—no, not angry. This is not anger that makes Gawain go tense and bow his head in that stubborn manner of his, an unspoken challenge that Lancelot accepts readily.

“Can we do it here?” he asks in an almost bored tone, even though it takes all of his acting abilities to pull it off.

They both know when the guards are going to pass through this hallway at noon. The sun is climbing up steadily, its slanted rays streaming through the narrow window a bit further down the hall.

Gawain glances at the rays, gauging the angle, then at him.

“We can,” he says in a hoarse voice, and Lancelot grins, sharp and thrilled, as he reaches for the fastenings of his scabbard.

~

“Are you drawing me..?”

“Ssh.”

Gawain goes to sit up, suddenly anxious. “No, but let me just…”

“Silence—sit! Sit, I said. Sit. Good.” Lancelot sighs, erasing a part with the back of his hand, charcoal smudging over pale skin. “You’re very handsome as you are, but don’t move. I am trying to draw your mouth. It’s already distracting, even when you don’t talk.”

There is a long beat of silence, but at least Gawain does not move, obviously processing the order — or even the fact that he had been given one. His mouth curling in a wry grin, Lancelot glances down at the sketch again.

“... I am not sure if you wanted a dog or a man,” Gawain admits under his breath with a petulant pout, and Lancelot huffs, stretching his leg out to gently shove him with his toes.

“Does it matter? Our relationship is very fulfilling.”

“Did you just…” the knight sputters.

“Silence, Gawain,” Lancelot demands airily, and Gawain sighs, rolling his eyes, but goes back to mending his cloak, a small smile resting on his mouth.

~

The library is, as always, quiet and peaceful, and there is a constancy in it that takes the last of Lancelot’s ever-present anxiousness away, erases it like the waves washing the lines in the sand away. They are not gone, not really, forever etched in his skin like ridges in the stone, but, Lancelot thinks with a soft happy sigh, he cannot see them now, and even though they are still there, in that constant struggle, the water always wins.

Adjusting the hold on the book—carefully, so as not to jostle Gawain who is pressed against him with a book of his own—Lancelot pauses for a moment, his gaze fixed unseeingly on the fancy swirls of the letters telling another dragon story. It is a bit of a dull one, anyway; they talk much more about the knight than the dragon, and he finds his attention drifting to the man at his side, Gawain’s breathing deep and measured as he goes through the stack of parchments.

On days like these, it is easy to forget there is still winter and war outside. Even with Priamus’ reinforcements, Gawain is lingering, waiting for something, his eyes pensive and expectant when he overlooks the enemy’s banners and tents from the battlements, weighing the next decision. He is right to do so: they have far fewer men, and every fey lost is a tragedy, a tear in the colourful tapestry of their culture, the culture that already teeters on the verge of extinction in this kingdom.

So, they wait — for what Lancelot doesn’t know, though he plans to figure it out; Kaze seems to know, but she dodged his questions with a cagey look that made him pause and drop it for the time being. They will call for his blades when they need him; of that he is sure. And even though his gaze still lingers on the maps scattered over Gawain’s desk and his ears catch the fragments of council disputes, he has all the faith in Gawain and his trusted war friends not to miss the ideal moment to strike.

In the meantime, Lancelot is far too occupied with discovering the many little delights of being in love to have much of a mind for the war frozen and still outside the high castle walls. They are as inseparable as they can be with their duties, finding each other the very moment training, hunting and scouting do not detain them— and Lancelot cannot get enough, basking in that golden sunlight he still cannot truly believe is all for him. 

Sometimes, the sun is an overwhelming burst of heat, their bodies colliding on their trajectories and being thrown into the nearest room or, more than once, an alcove, teeth finding skin and hands finding each other. Sometimes, it is a tender mellow shine, like right now, slumped against one another on the intricately carved little divan.

Under Lancelot’s pale hand, its richly embroidered blue upholstery is slightly worn out, a dignified relic, like much in the castle. They have salvaged it from one of the abandoned rooms, and Gawain seemed apprehensive, hesitating in the doors, but in the end, agreed to haul it to the library. In the process, Lancelot has nearly died from sneezing his head off from the dust that had seemed to be gathered in every nook, but the result is worth it. 

There is not exactly enough space for them both to be lounging on it, but he would not trade his place for the most luxurious palace, not with Gawain resting his head against his shoulder, red hair bundling up in the funniest, most endearing way Lancelot has ever seen. It is warm and heavy, that bright, wild head. Too much of the latter, though, since it keeps sliding down, and it feels as if Gawain has somehow managed to bruise his forearm already with his skull alone.

“You have a very heavy head,” Lancelot remarks, turning the page and not moving an inch to dislodge the pleasant burden.

“It’s because I have heavy thoughts,” Gawain murmurs absently, rustling his own parchment as he turns it around and scowls at the atrocious handwriting.

The silence settles on the respective pages, grows heavy with their breathing until Lancelot breaks it.

“Such as?” he prompts, his eyes skimming the fancy runes. They are easier to decipher with every passing day. However, he still has to concentrate, which is especially difficult because Gawain radiates the lack of concentration so strongly it begins to deviate the trajectory of Lancelot’s own focus. Remarkably, Gawain manages to do it in complete silence — which he holds for a moment longer before replying.

“Children.”

Throwing his head back to fix his gaze at the vault of the ceiling, Lancelot considers the statement with the distant interest of a magpie turning its head left and right as it inspects a stone that, when the sun hits it right, appears to glitter a bit. Finding that the sky is overcast right now, Lancelot looks down at the bestiary he is holding.

“Very appropriate,” he nods solemnly, turning the page, then turning it back because he has not actually read the last paragraph.

Gawain sounds a bit choked when he looks up: “What?”

“You’re reading Percival’s essay, are you not?” Lancelot reminds, his brows snapping together.

“Ah. Ah, yes. Yes, I am.”

He sounds surprised, and usually, Lancelot would not feel the need to point it out, but he feels the situation calls for desperate measures right now. Putting the book aside with a quiet sigh—marking the place where he has stopped with a finger—he stares into the middle distance for a moment.

“Do we need to talk about it?” he asks, at last, when no convenient attack on the castle presents itself to get him out of this conversation.

“An essay?” Gawain dodges with ill-misplaced confidence in his evasive skills that Lancelot is quick to dispel.

“Children.”

“Not unless you want to.”

Once again, Lancelot considers it for a moment.

“Not really,” he decides, opening the book and quickly finding the paragraph. 

That one is actually about the dragon itself, he sighs happily to himself. At his side, Gawain also sighs, remarkably less happily, but he ignores it. If he hides in the book long enough, there is a chance the issue will go away.

~

Some issues do not go away.

“Where are these from?” Gawain asks in a quiet voice, running a gentle hand down Lancelot’s thigh, the muscles under his fingers tensing as Lancelot withdraws slightly. The hand lifts to his forearm, brushing over the faint white lines, less deep but fresher. “And these?”

“You know perfectly well,” Lancelot replies in a clipped voice.

“I know only that you inflicted them,” Gawain argues, still in that soft, maddening voice, as if he thinks Lancelot is a spooked animal that will bolt at the slightest provocation. Maybe he is. “Not why you did it.”

When picturing this scene before, Lancelot has always thought it would be difficult to confess. But with Gawain quiet and warm next to him, not making him look him in the eye, just trailing his fingers slowly up and down the skin, from scarred to unblemished and back, the words come tumbling out before he even has time to choose them.

“There is the noise I need to silence,” he says simply, sitting up and tugging the coverlet over his lap to hide at least some of the scars from sight as if they can be listening, silently mocking him for this weakness. “Sometimes, so much that I can’t hear any other thought. When I do it, the voices stop.”

“The voices? Is that how Hidden feels?” Gawain asks in a slightly worried tone that implies he would have arranged for a healer if it had been anyone else, but he wouldn’t do so with him, and again this implied trust in his ability to handle it soothes Lancelot’s ruffled feathers.

“No,” he shakes his head. “The Hidden only appear when something warrants their attention—a fight, or, or some other significant event. I believe they have more important matters to attend to than my day to day struggles.”

A faint frown darkens Gawain’s face.

“They are important to me, though. If it is not them, what is it, then?” he asks quietly, catching Lancelot’s hand to hold it, pressing a brief kiss to the knuckles — still raw but no longer bleeding at the slightest provocation.

Shifting to sit straighter, Lancelot gathers his thoughts and finds a grain of courage needed to get them out.

“Feelings,” he says curtly, keeps his voice even to counteract the confession. “Too many, too strong—it’s that or another fey fire explosion. You choose.”

“I am quite sure there is a third way,” Gawain mutters, leaning over to flip the coverlet to the side and kiss up the scars. It’s tickling, maddening, it’s driving Lancelot to the verge of tears, so he bites his lip and frowns, refusing to give in — or to look away from where Gawain is slowly ascending to the crux of his thigh.

“How about next time they overwhelm you, you come to me?”

“And then what?” Lancelot clarifies quietly, clenching the sheets in his fists in a white-knuckled grip and opening his knees to let Gawain come closer.

“I’ll find the way to silence them that won’t hurt.”

Lancelot huffs, unconvinced at first, but then pauses, threading his fingers through the auburn hair, and gives the nod. If there is anyone who can help him wrangle those particular demons into submission, it is Gawain.

~

The forest crumbles into ash all around Lancelot, the deafening uproar of fire surrounding him on all sides. A branch snaps, raining ash and sparks on him, making him stumble, trying to cover his head—he can’t see his way, wearing a monk cowl, again, but the cloak catches on the charred bushes, tears and falls to the ground, quickly devoured by flames.

He only manages another two steps before he falls to the ground, which is covered in ash, dry grass and moss there unable to withstand the onslaught of flames. They lick up his skin, and it hurts, a fierce agony as he watches his white skin turn black, then white again, ripples of colour like those on the bark of birch trees. A swift, coiling shadow brushes his wrist, and he startles, tearing his eyes away from the terrible sight to see snakes slithering past him, winding their way out of the woods.

They whisper to him as they pass, a wave of murmurs of rebirth rolling over him, voices like the rustle of the leaves disturbed by the wind, like the hissing of the sea tides meeting stone. When Lancelot looks back at his hands, they glow from within, a liquid molten metal—the glow grows stronger, blinding him, the hum of force barely contained there rising until, with a snap, it explodes—

—he awakes with a violent gasp, kicking out in blind panic, his knee colliding with something hard but yielding under his attack, and he bares his teeth, silent—

—the glimpse of red makes it through the daze, the familiar scent drifting to his nose, and he goes lax. They sit in silence for a moment as Gawain waits for him to gesture that it is alright to come closer with an assigned flick of a wrist that is about as much as Lancelot feels he is capable of doing after these dreams.

After the sign, Gawain moves closer, and Lancelot meets him, his limbs rearranged into an embrace; he is too shaken yet to do much himself but slung a leg over Gawain’s hip. They lay in silence for a moment longer, the castle still and silent around them, only the slightest creak of shutters in the wind to disturb the quiet.

“Hidden this time?” Gawain clarifies in a low voice, brushing a gentle hand over his hair, and Lancelot gives a small nod, taking a moment to find his breath again, the grip of fear on his throat slowly loosening with steady, silent caress.

“Yes, that was… that was them,” he murmurs, still shivering, and curls in on himself, his fingers clenched to the point of pain on Gawain’s shoulder. “How do you know?”

“Your tear marks gleam,” Gawain replies in a low voice, then swallows hard. “Come here. Your skin is like ice; you need to warm up.”

Frowning, Lancelot presses closer, buries his face into Gawain’s chest. More of the sweet, soothing nothings are whispered in his hair, and he is embraced, careful enough to give him room to breathe though he is encircled in arms, a tender hand stroking down his back. It’s warm, safe, but he can still feel the tension between them, evasive like a silvery shadow of a fish in deep waters—but he has caught a glimpse of it.

Too exhausted to think about it, he closes his eyes and focuses on the soothing touch, the musky, lovely scent enveloping him, the steady heartbeat under his cheek, the best lullaby he could have asked for. As he drifts off to sleep, he feels Gawain’s breathing even out, too, and it soothes the sting of feeling, once again, like an enchanted monster from a fairytale—only Lancelot knows he was never a fair maiden in the first place for the knight’s kiss to undo the curse.

He squeezes his eyes shut and thinks of Gawain’s eyes, green, green like the fire raging in his dreams.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Florence + The Machine -- Bedroom Hymns.


	11. you don’t even know how much you are mine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The part from "It is only the second or third time Lancelot has agreed" to "For a short while, Lancelot lays quietly" is a tiny bit more explicit than the rest.

“Gods,” Kaze says with a conflicted expression, glancing between them and the council table. “Seriously? Here? Is it a statement?”

“It most certainly is,” Gawain confirms breathlessly, tossing his head back to get the tousled hair out of his eyes as he bends over to pick up his belt from the floor. “Lance, treasure mine, why the hell haven’t you said anything?”

“I said I will know if there is a threat! Or a stranger,” Lancelot squeaks, trying to reach his own garments, discarded in a heap, with his toes while holding the green tunic in front of him. “And Kaze is neither!”

“I beg your pardon—not a threat?” the woman arches her brow tartly, then scoffs at his panicked look and shakes her head, watching Gawain pick up with mild chagrin. “Not to you, little one. Maybe to this… defiler… On the left, Gawain.”

“Thank you! Also, I’d challenge you for slander if it wasn’t pointless, and I am too excited about putting this table to worthy use, at last, to be vexed about your moral superiority,” Gawain huffs, finally finding his boot and tugging it on. “Sorry. I thought the door was locked.”

“It was. I have a key,” Kaze reminds mildly, and they both wince. Despite the amiable tone she has, the reproach is clear as day. She seems to be thinking the same: “I hope you will come back to earth soon enough because, with both of you in such a state, we are doomed at the next attack.”

“First of all, Arthur can hold the fort down for three days; second, you’re right, sure, we will,” Gawain promises in a not particularly convincing attempt at earnestness, straightening his clothes. His reply is met with vaguely chilling silence that sobers them both up faster than a bucket of icy water.

“You’re usually better at it,” Lancelot accuses under his breath as he fastens his swordbelt because he is largely relying on Gawain for coming up with excuses, but then it seems both their defensive strategies cannot withstand the force of nature that is Kaze’s unvoiced disapproval.

Shooting him a betrayed look, Gawain stalks off to the window, flinging it open to let the fresh air in, banishing the scent of sex that, faint as it is, can be easily picked up by at least the two of them. The realisation is enough to set Lancelot’s face ablaze; slowly turning into a bonfire, he anxiously watches Kaze, who keeps pointed silence while gathering the scrolls she must have come for. 

“Can I expect you both on a sword practice tomorrow?” she asks in an even tone that makes Lancelot want to hide in the nearest closet and never come out to see the light of day. He has been dutifully attending his sessions with Percival for the last three days, upholding and nearly breaking the records they set. Still, unlike before, he has no longer stayed on the training grounds after the others were gone. And, realistically, he should have: there were plenty of things for him to learn; he is still atrocious at fighting side by side with someone.

They also haven’t sparred with Gawain once in these three days full of finding every single way to know each other. There were excuses—Priamus kept Gawain busy, and two of his people, Dinadan and Meriadoc, constantly dragged Lancelot into one archery challenge after another; but those were just — excuses.

“Of course,” Gawain says, in the meantime, unfazed as always as he cracks a small grin, turning around to lean against the windowsill, the breeze ruffling his hair. “What, you missed us? Priamus doesn’t occupy you enough?”

“Priamus forgets not everything he says about himself is true. And it would be infinitely satisfying to bring you down to earth, too,” Kaze replies, her face unreadable, but there is a chill in her voice that is as tangible as the chill seeping out of the open window, and Lancelot sees out of the corner of his eye a flicker of a wince cross Gawain’s features. 

There it is, again, this sucking suspicion that something is not quite right, but he cannot put the finger on it. He will have to ask about it later — the last thing he wants is to drive a wedge between his two closest people, for whatever reason that might be.

The chill has reached him by now. As he shrugs into his cloak, wrapping it around his frame, his ears catch the fast, busy footsteps, heels clicking on the floor.

The dawning look of horror on Gawain’s face as he moves closer to the window as if planning to jump out while gesticulating wildly at Kaze takes Lancelot off guard. When he glances questioningly at the woman, she is already done shaking her fist at the knight and is taking a step back to slide out of the door, shutting it firmly behind her. 

“Sir Kaze! Have you seen Gawain, by chance?” the voice sounds — Elaine, Lancelot recognises, a sour taste in his mouth at the mere sound of it. 

“No, I am also looking for him,” Kaze lies without missing a beat, making him breathe out in relief. 

“Let’s go check the library and then, if he is not there,” the knight adds meaningfully enough that Lancelot darts a quick glance at Gawain, who is listening intently as he fastens his own cloak. “After that, we can check the study.”

“I hope I can find him,” Elaine sighs, to which Lancelot bares his teeth in a silent snarl without even thinking. “It is almost as if he is avoiding me.”

“Oh, I am sure you’re wrong,” Kaze argues in an airy tone, drawing the woman away from the door, judging by their voices growing fainter. “I bet he will be delighted to see you. Do not give up; men are just so oblivious sometimes.”

“You really think so?” Elaine clarifies, and, to her credit, doubt creeps into her voice — but also hope, which Lancelot narrows his eyes at.

“Positive. Have you tried singing? He is quite fond of that.”

When Lancelot, suddenly worried he was missing something, glances back at Gawain, he is immediately soothed by seeing a murderous look spread over his face that promises that the next fight between him and Kaze will be spectacular. Giddy with anticipation and relief, Lancelot rolls from his heels to his toes and steps towards the door. 

~

The next day, when Lancelot resolutely extricates himself from Gawain’s bed and comes back to his room to fetch the weapons before the sword practice they promised to attend, his gaze falls again on the knives fanned out on the table. The shape of them keeps drawing his attention, an inkling of an idea hidden in it that calls for him to come closer, run his fingers down the blades, idly rearranging them. 

He gathers them in his hands, one on top of another, then pauses and, driven by a hunch, pours them across the tabletop again. Then, he pushes them together. Spreads them out again.

His eyes jump to the red-dyed twinge he has laying on the table, and he picks it up, looping it around his fingers as he thinks. Slowly, his smirk widens, and he huffs in excitement. Kaze will love that idea if it works out.

~

“Two on two!” Kaze calls out, her demanding voice driving Lancelot into motion before he even makes a decision. His feet carry him out of their own accord, closer to Gawain — the only exchange a glance before crouching into stances back to back, their swords raised.

Arthur and Priamus are against them, with the rest of the swordsmen lined up further down the training yard. Kaze is standing further to the side, supervising the younger trainees — Percival among them, paired with a moonwing buddy of his—but her voice carries easily over the yard, ringing harsh and clear in the cold air.

She whistles, sharp, and the fight begins. By tacit agreement, Gawain focuses on engaging Arthur while Lancelot guards his back against Priamus. It is not the first time they have fought each other, but it is still new enough for him to be wary. Besides, the foreigner employs an entire arsenal of tricks and feints, courtesy of the time he spent in other lands, that Lancelot has never encountered before. 

With a rapid lunge, Arthur strikes first — Gawain parries, not losing his ground. There is anxiousness welling under Lancelot’s skin that has never been present there before, an almost animal instinct to put himself in front, to not let anyone even come closer to nicking Gawain’s skin. With practice he has had in the last months, it is slightly less complicated than before to keep an eye on someone he needs to protect, and he is sure they will at least not get into each other’s way, despite vastly different fighting styles. However, it is a confusing, novel feeling, and he is wary it will make him go astray.

Priamus is still circling him, looking for an opening — he prefers it like that, after learning the hard way that going easy on Lancelot is not a good idea. Already strung out from the wait, Lancelot juts his blade forward in a quick, precise attack aiming at the sword arm, but Priamus parries easily, and the answering strike does not delay to come.

He cannot really dance aside as he usually would, not without letting Priamus get between him and Gawain, so he meets it, throws the blade to the side, and steps forwards, going on the offensive himself. It all goes relatively well, only one annoying nick on his cheek that is more of a taunt than anything — it flares his already frayed temper, though, and he bares his teeth.

Priamus grins, utterly unafraid, gleaming white teeth bared in a smug smile that makes Lancelot want to knock them out. “A biter, are you?”

Frowning, Lancelot does not reply, and only when he catches the slightly shifted scent, something more musky and heavy bleeding into sweat and roses, that he realises what the other man meant. Eyes growing wider for a moment, he narrows his gaze at once and frowns fiercely:

“Why don’t you find out?”

The arched black brows shoot up at that. He uses the moment to lunge, feigning, striking again, knocking the blade aside and diving under it — they cannot do it like he does, no one can, and it takes Priamus off guard for a split second it takes for Lancelot to press a dagger he keeps in his other hand to his throat.

“Yield?” he asks, body taut and trembling with the desire to hear “no”, see if he can push the man, too, if they can continue that dance.

Priamus curls his lips in a smile, long dark eyelashes fluttering once.

“Yes,” he breathes out and steps back, robbing Lancelot of his satisfaction. 

Breathing heavily, he frowns at the smug smirk that the beaten warrior gives him as if it is him suffering from indignance of losing — but the clang of steel draws his attention back to Arthur, who advances at Gawain. Lancelot is unpleasantly surprised to see he seems to be winning, a feral, terrifying snarl on his face. He has never seen the usually cheerful and amiable man like that, but he looks genuinely enraged, striking faster than the knight, the blade coming way too close when he is already slipping—

—Lancelot doesn’t recall later how he ended up between them, throwing the blade aside, shielding Gawain and then, when Arthur knocked a sword out of his hand, catching it on his shoulder in a risky but efficient move that upset the young man’s balance and sent him forward, just enough for Lancelot to swipe his feet from under him.

It’s a dirty move, but the way he lunges at Arthur when he is already on the ground is even worse—he is feral, ready to tear his throat out with his bare teeth for trying to hurt Gawain in earnest, he saw it—his hands find Arthur’s neck, and he doesn’t even try to dodge the hit that lands on his chin—

—Gawain hauls him off, pushing him aside, and Arthur rolls away, coughing and clutching at his throat. Seeing him struggle to get up, Lancelot freezes, the reality filtering in slowly, the din of worried voices and the sharp cries of Kaze cutting through it demanding to know what happened, Gawain replying something, Priamus stepping closer to shield him from the glances of other fey...

“—she just lost it—”

“—we’ve all been there—”

“—which one of you idiots provoked him—”

“—get your fucking wolf, Gawain, she will snap one day—”

Raising his eyes, Lancelot looks around, a haunted look on his face as if he is a fox looking at the pack of dogs. However, despite his expectations, some fey look at him with worry, not disgust and fear like others. Priamus still stands by his side, his sword sheathed as he explains to Kaze in a soothing voice what happened while Gawain helps Arthur get up.

“It’s my fault,” Arthur croaks out, meeting Lancelot’s eyes and giving him a small nod. “It’s my fault; I forgot myself at a harmless remark. If it wasn’t for Lance, I might have dealt a serious wound. But no harm was done; we are all good—right, Lance? No hard feelings?”

Shaking his head, Lancelot accepts an extended hand and gets up, hunching in on himself when Kaze glances at him sharply.

“Alright, everyone, stop gawking and go back to positions,” she declares, clapping her hands and turning everyone’s heads. “Let’s continue. Gawain, Arthur, a word.”

The crowd dispels, trickling to their assigned places, but the murmurs they carry away with them still reach Lancelot’s ears, making him clench his jaw in humiliation. Picking up his sword, he follows, too, studiously avoiding anyone’s gaze.

But even though he tries to blend into shadows, for once, others do not allow him that, waiting until he catches up with them.

“Don’t sweat it, little menace,” Priamus whispers in his ear, wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “We all had moments when we pummeled our friends into the ground. Have I told you how Gawain and I met..?”

Lowering his head and wiping the blood off his lips with a handful of snow, the cold biting at the cut, Lancelot shakes his head and allows the lilting voice to soothe the worst of the sting.

~

In the afternoon, when Lancelot is alone on the training grounds, pretending to practice with throwing knives while in reality just having at length debates with himself on the merits of stabbing himself with that same knife he is holding for being such an unhinged mess, Gawain finds him again. He stops in front of him, his spine stiff and features hard. Lancelot withers from inside, time and time again in the silence that stretches between them, even though he does not look away from the target.

“You can’t fight like you do,” Gawain says, at last, and it does not sound like the statement is intended to be a debate. “You don’t protect yourself enough; you lose yourself—it’s not right.”

“You were fine with that when I slaughtered the paladins,” Lancelot remarks coldly, pulling the dagger out of the bullseye.

Looking at the target as well, Gawain bites his lip and frowns, shaking his head. “I didn’t want to say anything while you were still recovering, while you were adjusting to life with us. But this cannot go on like that. You cling to your blade as if it is the sole reason you are alive, and you crave violence as the only means of control you have—you need to stop.”

Not replying for a short while, Lancelot clenches and unclenches his fingers around the pommel of the sword, then roughly wipes his nose with the back of his hand, not looking away 

“Do you despise me for that?” he rasps, sheathing the dagger he is holding.

“No, Lancelot,” he says in a hushed voice, tilting his chin and kissing him, a barely-there press of their lips, both his hands framing Lancelot’s face. “I love you. I admire you. But I am also afraid for you. Please, let me teach you how to fight so that you don’t end up dead because of losing control.”

Searching his face for a long moment, Lancelot swallows hard, then shakes his head.

“You’re afraid of me, not for me,” he sighs, trying to draw away, but Gawain stops him, pulls him back in, kissing him again, a harder bite that tastes faintly of blood, a contrast to the gentle hand he keeps on Lancelot’s cheek.

“You were trying to protect me, weren’t you?” he whispers, then smiles into the kiss when Lancelot nods. “Why would I be afraid of you, then?”

“I’m… mad,” Lancelot answers in a whisper, too, but Gawain kisses him again, and he clings to his shoulders, desperate, so desperate to keep that flame going after being afraid it was gone.

“Fight me,” Gawain asks, licking into his mouth as he draws the dagger out of the sheathe again and puts its hilt into his palm. “But follow my command.”

~

Pinned under the knight’s weight, Lancelot blinks the snow out of his eyes and huffs in defeat. He should really work on that left arm, still too we—

“Marry me,” Gawain blurts, his eyes wide and cheeks flushed, a lovely rosy colour that Lancelot admires for another moment before the words sink in.

“What?” he asks incredulously, wondering if he has knocked his head too hard on the ground.

Something shifts in Gawain’s face, crumbles — he blinks as if resurfacing from a daze, and there is a brief flicker of panic that makes Lancelot’s heart sink. There are so many warring emotions in such a short time that he cannot untangle them, cannot even fully catch them all before Gawain sets his jaw, eyes flaring up.

“Marry me,” he repeats.

Lancelot blinks, swallows, but none of that clears the confusion in the slightest, so he resorts to using words.

“Why?”

It does not seem to be the right thing to ask, judging by an agonised twitch at the corner of Gawain’s mouth. It is the only give away, the rest of his face a mask that Lancelot aches to yank away, infuriated to see it shut off the light he has just briefly glimpsed when Gawain asked the first time.

“Are you against the idea or is there something wrong with me?” Gawain asks, a distant look on his face as if he is preparing himself up for the worst. 

It tugs on Lancelot’s heart in the most painful way, though he struggles to find the word to alleviate the pain, too blindsided by both the offer and the idea that there is anything wrong with Gawain — what can the knight like him even be worried about?

“Neither,” he replies, reaching up to trace his fingers down the side of Gawain’s face, then smiles softly when Gawain’s eyes widen. “I—I just didn’t expect you to ask. I am — how does it even work? I am not a woman…. ”

“To the law, you are,” Gawain replies, then smiles thinly. “One time laws are convenient is when you make others follow them, too.” 

Lancelot swallows, clenches his fist. “I…”

“So… is that a yes?” Gawain clarifies, his voice still full of disbelief, and Lancelot huffs.

“It’s not a no,” he corrects, heart thumping painfully in his chest, confused and exhilarated. “But why me?”

“Who else?” Gawain frowns as if he has not even considered other people, which, Lancelot thinks, is precisely a problem.

“Elaine,” he says with a straight face that he loses almost immediately, breaking into a grin when Gawain groans and falls to the side, pressing his hands to his face.

He follows, nuzzling closer, a grin dimming into a gentle, wry smile as he watches Gawain contemplate the bright blue sky above them.

“Here I am, baring my heart, and you are just amused by my torment,” Gawain huffs, and Lancelot rolls his eyes, sitting up.

“You know I love you,” he throws over his shoulder, picking up snow and rolling it between his palm, snowflakes sticking to the woollen gloves. “No, but—what will the others say?” he asks, frowning and biting his knuckle. “I fear I will tarnish your name. I am no one—worse than no one. It’s better to keep me as your lover.”

He would have been terrified at the short silence that follows, but with Gawain having just proposed even he cannot muster the usual level of self-derision, so he just waits patiently.

“Don’t ever say it again,” Gawain says, low and brittle, as he moves up, hand rising to cradle Lancelot’s cheek, urging him to turn and meet the worried green eyes. “You’re everything.” 

He shrugs with more nonchalance than he feels. “By the law, I am not.”

“Fuck the law,” Gawain declares with a definitive air of a man who put much thought into the matter, presses a kiss into the corner of his mouth and falls back, pillowing his arms under his head and stretching out, as if the chill of the ground does not really bother him. “I would never be ashamed of being joined with you, and those who disagree can kindly fuck off.”

Squirming on his stomach to get closer, Lancelot snorts, blows his curls away from his face. “Alright. Still —” he sighs, frowning and biting on his lip, fingers tracing the hem of Gawain’s cloak, up to the brooch clasping it. “I am a bastard orphan without a name, no lands, no friends, nothing. The council—and your clan—they will be furious at such an alliance.”

“I’ll deal with them. However... I asked you before, but we weren’t this close then—do you not remember your family?” Gawain asks quietly, and Lancelot shakes his head. “Not at all?”

“Bit and pieces,” Lancelot shrugs, moving to stand and extending his gloved hand to pull Gawain up. “Nothing that would tell me who they really were.”

He sighs, nuzzling his forehead into Gawain’s chest, then intends to take a step back but is stopped by a heavy hand pressing into the small of his back and urging him to stay, glancing up in confusion at the gesture.

“I can look into it, if you want,” Gawain offers in a quiet voice, his eyes searching Lancelot’s face. “Would you be more willing to reconsider then?”

Freezing, Lancelot considers the offer for a moment.

“Yes,” he murmurs, grabbing at the brooch that fastens his cloak, cold hard edges digging into his palm. “It is not a condition, fuck—it’s just all so fast, that’s all, I want to be sure you’re not—that you won’t change your mind. But if you can do it… I would really appreciate that.”

“Of course, my heart,” Gawain and then snickers when Lancelot wrinkles his nose. “What? No? Too much?”

“Way too sweet,” Lancelot says, then pauses, adjusting his cloak. It is not a good idea to have your heart outside your chest, out in the open when anyone can stab it when you are not even there to stop it — but he is not the one to talk. Still, the heart is one thing, and the state is another. “Does it change things between us? The proposal, I mean.”

Cocking his head to the side, Gawain studies his face for a long moment.

“If you are worried about your freedom, don’t be,” he says, shaking his head and wrapping an arm around his shoulders. “I am not a jealous man. I only ask you to be honest with me.”

~

It is only the second or third time Lancelot has agreed to let Gawain have him under. He had plied himself with more mead than strictly speaking was reasonable but batted away Gawain’s hand and not heeded his suggestions — almost warnings — to try it another day. The kind of apprehension written on Gawain’s face almost looked as if he was scared of Lancelot, and it rendered Lancelot blind, deaf and mute with regret.

It is true that he wants the knight unafraid of him, no longer tensing when Lancelot does something, anything, that even remotely carries a hint of a threat. Not that Gawain ever utters a single word, or even looks at him for too long, or too disapproving, but even he can’t wear the mask day and night, and Lancelot is not blind. Distant and unsure of what to do, he might be, but there are few things he misses.

He knows that every time he flips the knife with which he cuts an apple in his hand while reading in their bed, Gawain starts a bit, eyes flickering to follow the blade, drawn to it before he can pretend it doesn’t bother him. There are many more things, small little signs of violence ingrained in his core, that seem to both pull Gawain in and push him away.

Lancelot—probably—would not have conceded to submission simply to appease the knight—probably—but it is more. He cannot unravel that steel core of his, cannot carve out his nature without bleeding out to death, and neither can he witness Gawain’s hesitation any longer when faced with it. They have to make peace, one way or another, and appearing non-threatening is easy when you are on your back, your throat and stomach bared, your legs spread wide in an invitation.

Besides, he can feel that thrumming, demanding presence in him that knocks at his ribs so loudly it rattles in his skull, eclipsing all other thoughts. It is a deeply, robustly buried part of him, the one that found exaltation in kneeling in front of the false gods, the one that he did his best to exterminate since his escape. But it is still there, and it demands him to have a god to pray to, and Gawain, golden light shining through his skin, sparks of fire tangled in his hair, Gawain with his sharp eyes and soft words, he is as close to god as Lancelot has ever seen anyone of flesh and blood come to.

The cross might lay forgotten in the chest of clothes, but it has burned right through him, and, deep inside, Lancelot knows there was something wrong, something rotten in him in the first place that made it possible for him to fold so, to give the reins to someone else and let them point him in the right-wrong, so wrong eventually-direction.

The apple, he thinks, was not the one that led to knowledge, nor the one that promised pleasure; it was the one that let someone shed the burden of having to decide, having to fight. It was the one steeped in a sleeping draught, a bite enough to lull you into the drowse so devoid of will that it felt a little bit like death.

Succumbing to this feels a bit like death, indeed. The pleasure is violent, rippling through his muscles and clenching his stomach, and deep inside, the undercurrent of shame runs, a taint of finding it satisfying to be on his back for someone. Even if that someone is a man he would have killed for, over and over again, even if every breath Gawain takes, sides brushing against the insides of Lancelot’s thighs, is the greatest blessing there is.

Everyone already thinks he does it, so what does it matter, Lancelot tells himself, but instead of reassurance, the words taste like rot and dust on his tongue.

But Gawain is tender with him when he takes, he is gentle and loving, whispering words of praise into his skin that make Lancelot want to die because he wants them so badly, but he knows that even if he _does_ deserve them, he should not wish for them. They are for all the wrong things. If only he was reasonable and bold, he would have turned himself into steel, once again, and forgotten there was ever a bloom crawling up the blade.

He is not reasonable. He is not bold, either, because when Gawain looms over him, Lancelot’s breath is taken away, thrust by thrust. He can no longer just observe the well-oiled machine of his body move and shift to reciprocate as if it knows instinctively how to meet that force coiled tight in Gawain’s hips, the one Lancelot envies so. It is too primal, this pleasure, but it is ruthless, making him gasp and arch, hollow filth growing in his body.

And he feels something emerge, and it’s not him, it’s something that coexists with him, an uneasy alliance, but it’s almost beautiful in its primordial wickedness. He wants to let it remain for a bit longer, mesmerised by the way it unfurls and breathes, absorbing the warmth emanating from Gawain’s hands, sliding over the ribs as the knight, attracted by the half-formed word Lancelot makes, looks up.

“Say it,” he demands hoarsely— as if it is his throat that is shot from screaming, even though he’s never once raised his voice.

It sweeps him under. It pries control of his fingers and throws it out of the window, laughing in his face. It’s green-eyed and wild, and it makes him feel as if he is burning and drowning all at once, tumbling through the dark, flashes of thunder under his eyelids.

_“... Gawain.”_

It’s a small, short gasp, but the knight hears, moans in reply, jerking in him, and again, and then falling forward, letting go of his hips and catching himself on the hands as he arches, droplets of sweat raining down from his hair, landing on Lancelot’s lips, salt and musk invading his mouth.

The funeral bells are ringing in his head, damning and solemn, as he runs the tip of his tongue to collect the moistness. The tidal wave in his chest is rising, clawing its way up his throat to well in his eyes.

“Hey—what’s wrong? What is it? Have I hurt you?”

Belatedly, Lancelot realises Gawain is no longer looming over him, that they must have turned around, that he is embraced in a steady, caring way that makes him want to throw up. He cries, shaking in the firm, heavy arms, clutching at them, wanting to push them away, keeping them where they are as if he can’t get enough of their choking hold on his ribs.

“No,” he forces out, choking on a sob. “You haven’t.”

He doesn’t know what he cries for. It is just that his body feels like an overripe, rotten fruit, like a mindless, sated serpent. He can’t take this pleasure, doesn’t know what to do with it, shoved in his hands against his will.

It’s not Gawain’s fault. It is just his misaligned, exhausted body that has cried itself to sleep for years, and now it tries to do so again, cold flooding his chest so harsh it is as he is plunged into icy water, air stolen out of his lungs.

But the man beside him does not move away, does not make a sound to acknowledge he witnesses this disgrace, save for quiet, soothing words whispered in Lancelot’s ear. Choking on a silent shuddering sob he stifled, he turns around, hiding his face in Gawain’s chest, and clings to him, settles in the warm embrace to slowly remember how to breathe.

“Sorry,” he murmurs, once he is sure his voice will not betray him after a single word. “I didn’t think I’d react like that.”

“I should have realised,” Gawain replies softly, brushing his hair away and gently urging Lancelot to look up, which he does, albeit reluctantly. “Calm down, wren. You are safe; everything is alright. I am sorry — I didn’t realise, I thought… Doesn’t matter. Do you need anything? Water?”

Lancelot shakes his head with a miserable little sound, then pauses and gives a small nod. He clings a bit, numb and tired, when Gawain moves to bend over to the side, and a warm hand squeezes his in reassurance before Gawain comes back to give him the tankard. 

“Here,” he murmurs, gently stroking Lancelot’s shoulder as he drinks. “Better?” 

“Uhu.”

They sit in silence for a moment, the air disturbed by worry, settling slowly back into fragile but peaceful quiet.

“Can you forgive me?”

Rolling his eyes, Lancelot scoffs and glances away, eyes lingering on the gently shimmering pink potion standing on the bedside.

“Yes,” he mutters distantly because that was never even a question, not in his mind. It is not Gawain he cannot forgive, and he sets his jaw with a heavy exhale, closing his eyes. His focus is still thrown by the gentle hand that rubs circles into his skin, and he moves slightly away to collect himself. “We can do it; I will try again. It’s just my fear—and pride—I should not let it keep it from your pleasure. It’s unfair.”

Silently reaching out to take his hand, Gawain brings it to his mouth and kisses his slightly healed knuckle, a thoughtful, cautious look flickering in his eyes as he studies Lancelot’s face.

“There is no pleasure when you find none,” he confides, pressing a kiss to the next knuckle and not looking away. “It’s both of us or not at all, Lance. But—I have to know, was it because—something happened before? Or is it because you believe it somehow shameful?”

Lancelot shakes his head and wipes his eyes with the back of his free hand.

“The latter. It’s just—I am sick with things happening to me as if I am just a puppet.”

“Does it feel like that?” Gawain winces. “Gods. I—I didn’t think of it like that. You’re not a toy.”

Eyes trained on the flicker of a flame dancing on a candle wick, Lancelot hums, unconvinced. The silence hanging in the room is lukewarm but still mostly miserable.

“You don’t believe me, do you..?” Gawain asks quietly, then pauses and shifts, mattress dipping under his arm when he pushes himself up and urges Lancelot to turn around by pulling him on his back. “Alright—don’t get scared. I am not doing anything; I am just laying here. See? Just laying. Sorry, can’t raise my hands, but imagine I do.”

Huffing a weak, watery laugh, Lancelot peers down, trying to understand the angle. He has not really cried, but his entire face feels stuffed and tender; he has to blink the itch out of his eyes before meeting Gawain’s warm, serious gaze.

“See?” he repeats, quiet and encouraging. “I am on you, but nothing bad is happening. You are still in control. How do you feel?”

“Stupid,” Lancelot replies with eloquence.

“But safe, right? Good. Throw me off.”

“What?” Lancelot croaks, and Gawain repeats: “Shove me to the ground.”

Lancelot does. He doesn’t kick with full strength, but Gawain goes down anyway, even though there is enough resistance to make it feel as if he did it, that surrender was not given to him on a silver plate. It is strange, a jolt of euphoric and light feeling shooting through Lancelot, as if his entire body comes awake again, thaws out starting from the tips of his fingers.

He watches, still a bit apprehensive, how Gawain climbs back into bed, settling between his legs again. This time he presses closer, takes more space — but his eyes are riveted to Lancelot’s face, and the moment he coils back, Gawain stops.

“Again,” he says, calm and collected, and Lancelot flushes, bares his teeth and kicks again, clenching the sheets in his fists. It is less forgiving now, a heel landing onto the ribs with ruthless precision, but Gawain falls back without a sound, only a slight wince.

The feeling grows stronger in Lancelot, like wind picking up, and he feels the hairs rise on the back of his neck, a pleasant shiver running through him. Squirming up the bed, he waits until Gawain slowly crawls up his body, stoping

“Again,” he demands, voice hoarse; he is hard, again, but now Lancelot feels as if he, too, has enough hard ridges in his body to match that. He is no longer loose, soft black soil, he is a hardened ground bound together by roots of his tendons and muscles, and he pushes back hard enough to make Gawain hiss. However, this time the man does not budge, only sways to the side and then comes back right after.

“Harder,” he bites out, and Lancelot narrows his eyes, snarling before he puts all of his force into the push—it is not enough when full-front like this, but he manages to shove Gawain back. The knight falls backwards but doesn’t roll off the bed — instead, he pauses, giving him a questioning look. 

Heart hammering in his chest and sweat breaking out on his back, Lancelot swallows and nods, raking a hand through his hair. And still, Gawain lingers for a moment, so, tilting his head, Lancelot bares his teeth in a feral grin and opens his legs a bit wider, trembling with anticipation.

“Come at me,” he rasps, and there it is, something twisting behind Gawain’s eyes, green and dangerous like a serpent in the grass, the only warning before he lunges.

The way they grapple is really more of a struggle than an embrace; they roll around, wrestling, biting, growling — mostly Lancelot, but Gawain does, too, in reply, every muscle in his back rippling when he struggles to come out on top. Despite his smaller frame, Lancelot is wiry and quick, finding the weak points with precision and using them to his advantage, so he manages to pin Gawain down and keep him there, his knee aimed at the knight’s crotch.

They only exchange a quick glance, both panting and grinning, before Lancelot raises on his knees to guide Gawain inside. It hits differently, with the rush of their tussle, the harshness reflected in the way he moves, jerky and violent. He barely notices the hands on his hips before Gawain pushes up, switching their positions.

The change is more disorienting than frightening; tensing with his entire body, Lancelot freezes for a moment, heart racing and thoughts tangling, and it is only the warm, quiet voice that snaps him out of it, coming through the haze, followed by a light caress to his chest.

“How are you?” Gawain whispers, hot breath tickling Lancelot’s ear, as he rolls his hips almost languidly, but deep, so deep that Lancelot struggles to remember why he was supposed to be ashamed; even though he is, again, this rotten thread stitches into his stomach. 

He doesn’t reply, and Gawain draws slightly back, letting him breathe. He doesn’t stop moving as he studies his face, before coming back down. Slumped over Lancelot, surrounding him from all sides and pinning him down, he is a terrifying, exhilarating presence that dominates all of Lancelot’s feelings, all of them going haywire and tangling into an unruly mess.

“How do you feel?” Gawain asks, an exhale, and his eyes are glazed over, but there is still a sober edge to his voice and look.

“Squashed,” Lancelot manages to force out, getting a warm chuckle in reply. 

“Throw me,” he whispers in his ear, almost moans. “Flip us around.”

“I can’t,” Lancelot protests, panting and slightly afraid now. “I—I am…”

_“You can.”_

Squeezing his eyes shut, Lancelot listens for a moment to himself, to the rotten, hard, contradictory mess of his body, yielding and resisting in all the wrong places, as if it, too, can’t decide what it is and tries to be everything at once. 

There is a silvery thread in all of it, something that is just him, something that always fights and never listens; he follows it for a moment until the turmoil in his head settles a bit, morphing into the familiar cool focus. There are dozens of weak points, he realises, that Gawain also bares to him, a map of all the way to hurt coming before his eyes. On another thrust, he pushes up and twists—

—and then Gawain grins at him, throwing his head back and swallowing, while Lancelot pants, flooded with light, his head ringing as he gasps for air, victoriously settled on top despite all the resistance Gawain put into countermovement. They are not moving anymore, but it is not what he wants, this stillness, he wants to chase more—so he does, rocking his hips forward, and Gawain meets him, steadies him with a gentle hand on his hip.

“You’re every bit the same wherever you are, over me, under me, Lance, it is no matter,” he murmurs, earnest and low, as he shifts to sit up, bringing them face to face. “You can still kill me. You can still love me. It is your choice.”

He wants to say that word so badly, but his throat is seized, his tongue twisted in a knot. Helpless against it — it grips him like a spell — he resorts to frantic, quick little touches, fingers brushing over Gawain’s eyelids, down his cheek, over the short stubble, to the bottom lip, before diving to his throat, resting at the beating, thrumming hollow.

“I guess that stands for love tonight, then,” Gawain says, a slight curl to the corner of his lips, but his eyes stay solemn. It is only when Lancelot nods eagerly that the mask cracks, the mirth shining through; it explodes when he surges up to kiss Lancelot, who answers desperately, putting that word he cannot say in the other’s mouth the only way he knows how.

~

For a short while, Lancelot lays quietly, squeezing his hand around Gawain’s palm, marvelling at the feeling of their fingers intertwined, as he brushes his thumb over the man’s knuckles, counting them in one direction and then the other, again and again. 

“Do you want to go try to befriend Goliath again tomorrow?” he asks softly. It is already almost tomorrow, to be fair, the embers cold in the hearth, but neither of them complains, content to lay together and breathe each other in.

Curled around him, Gawain sighs but nods.

“Shall I bring him human flesh? He refused all and any of my offerings,” he complains, rubbing a hand over his face.

“He is very smart,” Lancelot remarks absently, nuzzling closer and falling quiet again for a short moment, relishing the comforting scent. “He knows when people are afraid of him.”

Not stopping stroking his hair, Gawain huffs. “I am not afraid of your horse.”

“Keep telling yourself that.” 

~

“Why did you bite him again?” Lancelot whispers in Goliath’s ear before tugging at it gently in admonition as he runs a brush over the sleek black coat. “What is it with you and Gawain? I love him, and you just keep trying to ruin it. Bad horse!”

Exhaling heavily, the stallion rumbles and lowers his head with a grim look in his eyes.

~

One day, Lancelot asks for something that has been on his mind for two days already, a brilliant solution for him to reconcile the screaming parts of his mind and stop them from clawing at each other, shredding his focus in the process. 

So, he asks Gawain how men who are born as such do it. Momentary confusion follows, and there are trips for supplies and preparation undertaken that make Lancelot sober up and regret asking, but he is too hopeful and curious to let the idea go. Once they end in bed, again, Gawain implores him not to bite, and Lancelot does bite to get it out of his system before they start but eventually lets go and takes a deep breath before giving a decisive nod.

As it turns out, the way men do it is amazing. He would have never thought so from the description, but it is. In the beginning, when Gawain explained, it really seemed like a stretch of what bodies are supposed to withstand outside fighting, but now, when they are both catching their breath, Lancelot is ready to admit his distrust was misplaced.

“It would be so great if I could do it, too,” he sighs wistfully. He is absolutely blissed out now, still thrumming and slightly sore, which is why these words must slip, but he is too sleepy to try to catch or explain them. 

Gawain is silent for so long that Lancelot abandons hope to get a reply. First, he puts the vial of oil away lest they spill even more of it than they did when Lancelot accidentally kicked it, then strokes his hair gently, but eventually, he draws his hand away and inhales.

“There is a way,” he says slowly, shifting to get more comfortable.

“There is?” Lancelot perks up at once, blowing his curls out of his face and twisting around to look up, getting his legs tangled in the crumpled sheets.

Giving him a short nod, Gawain squints in thought. “We will need to ask Kaze for that. I don’t have it myself.”

Appropriately terrified and humbled, Lancelot is still too curious to back down, so he swallows and licks his lips but clarifies hesitantly:

“... _Can_ we ask Kaze for that..?”

Gawain glances at him, then shakes his head and draws him in an embrace, his voice thick with exasperated fondness: “I will do it.”

Letting out a soft happy mewl, Lancelot nuzzles closer, exhaling heavily in that contradictory, exciting place under Gawain’s collarbone, firm but thin-skinned, echoes of heartbeat meeting his cheek.

“I will be good to you,” he promises excitedly and grins, feeling the heartbeat stutter for a moment before picking up. 

~

It is cold, still, the weather taking a turn for the worse, so in the morning, they huddle closer, burying their faces in each other’s shoulders. Gawain has been sleeping better the last few nights, at least, seemingly waking up just a bit before Lancelot and not before dawn, as he used to. He is even lounging a bit, for the first time since they have started sleeping together, stretching under furs and exhaling softly, eyes dazed when he contemplates the morning light streaming through the window. 

It is difficult to say for sure with the heavy clouds hanging low over the forest, almost low enough to gather into mist brushing over the tops of the pine trees, tangling in their branches, but it looks as if the sun has just risen. 

Lancelot looks at his own sun, at first afraid to even breathe, so as not to spook this rare sight of Gawain laying in bed instead of rushing off to dress into another immaculately taken care of tunic of his, already laid out on the chest. He is fully awake already, but he seems content to steal a handful of minutes and listen to a birdsong tingling outside — like tiny shards of ice swirled around in a glass vial, Lancelot thinks, reaching out to brush a stray strand off from Gawain’s forehead.

“Morning,” he murmurs softly, and Gawain hums in reply. “Did you have another one of your dreams?”

“Yes,” Gawain says, quiet and tense.

Lancelot falls silent, unsure of whether he should continue. The image of a young woman trapped under the ice is chilling his blood, but she must have at least retained enough of herself to remember Gawain and reach out to help him when they were bringing food from that village. It is a good sign, but that he has already told, so he looks for something else to say.

“Any news from the magician?” he wonders. It is a stupid old superstition, but he cannot get rid of it, avoiding saying the mage’s name even though he has seen him eat the bland porridge with the rest of them at one of the dining tables.

Gawain shakes his head.

“I am sure he will find a way,” Lancelot murmurs, aching to erase the worry marring Gawain’s feature. 

“If anyone can, it’s him. And Nimue is a survivor,” Gawain says, sighing. “All of us are. Don’t worry. My brooding moment is almost over. Stop tickling me, though.”

“Sorry, I was just curious,” he murmurs, taking his fingertips away from the long, nasty scar running over the knight’s abdomen. “Where’s that one from?”

“A lance,” Gawain replies in a distant voice, then stretches, joints creaking. Wincing, Lancelot runs a hand gently over the shoulder, the scars there learnt and healed well. He watches the long, angry lines branded into the fair skin and thinks, heart seized by worry, whether any amount of love would ever be enough to erase what he did.

It baffles him endlessly that Gawain gives him that chance, the promise of a life spent together, and he thinks about it again, and again, and again, until Gawain throws the fur off and stands up, the cold air takins his place and stealing their shared warmth away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Meg Myers -- Lemon Eyes.


	12. the roads were entwined in a tight tangle of snakes in love with each other

They wake up simultaneously, gasping for air and clutching at each other, the echoes of the thunderbolt still resonating through the night.

“What the—”

“Are you—”

Falling silent and trying to catch their breath, they cling to one another. Lancelot is shaking and the faint green glow lines his fingers that he hastily puts out, willing for it to subdue while Gawain sits up jerkily, running a hand over his face, the Fingers of Airimid curling all the way down his jaw and neck.

“It’s her,” he murmurs, then inhales shakily, pushing to stand and walking to the window to throw it open. Outside, the first droplets of rain fall down, freezing before they reach the ground, and slowly, the hail picks up the strength, hammering on the roofs. “He found her.”

Silently, Lancelot gets up, too, walks over, pressing closer to shield the man from the cold as best as he can. He doesn’t ask to close the shutters because Gawain is looking blindly into the darkness, the way he does when he listens to magic. Lancelot is still less attuned to it, but even he can pick up the threads, follow them to the horizon, where the distant flashes of bright white splatter over the dark underbelly of thunderclouds.

“Can we help?” he murmurs. A part of him, that flame lining his lungs from inside, longs to reach out and join the wild, thrumming currents of magic winding through the air, converging to the lake.

“No,” Gawain shakes his head, his features hardening as he narrows his eyes, the vines on his cheeks moving restlessly. Swallowing, he finds Lancelot’s hand and covers it with his own. “I asked him, but he warned not to come close. My blessing is of no use there—and yours is too volatile.”

Falling quiet again, Lancelot shifts his eyes to the horizon, where the wild dance of white and blue ribbons in the air is even more terrifying for how silent it is. The brief, vicious hail has ended, ice chunks the size of his fist scattered over the cobblestones of the yard. 

There are warm lights flickering in the castle windows, its inhabitants peeking outside, watching the magic unfold with worried faces. Then the wind picks up, howling and throwing snow in their faces, strong enough to rattle the tiles on the roof and extinguish the torches of the guard patrolling the walls. 

With joint effort, they tug the shutters close and latch the lock. The magic is still restless, coiling under Lancelot’s skin, but it settles enough not to threaten a fire on top of the hurricane. Still, his heart is beating so loud, he almost doesn’t hear the words when Gawain speaks:

“Do you want to go cook something?” he asks in a low voice, lighting a candle.

“Cook?” Lancelot starts, eyes going wide. Of all the things he had thought Gawain would say, a suggestion to cook was not what he expected. “Now?”

“I find it quite soothing,” Gawain shrugs, dark shadows under his eyes even more prominent in the flickering dim light. “And both of us are not getting any sleep tonight anyway. Also, I lost a bet to Priamus as to who kills more paladins, and it was a price, so might as well.”

After a short pause, Lancelot gives a weak nod and reaches for his clothes. 

Throwing some clothes on — enough to keep them warm in the windy hallways — they depart from the room. As they walk, the fragments of whispers from behind the closed door follow them, the dwellers of the castle talking about the magic phenomena. Gawain keeps silent, just nodding at the few people they meet on the way and calming them with a reminder that Merlin, no matter what anyone says about him, is the most qualified person to deal with getting their queen out of the underworld.

There are shadows in his eyes that tell Lancelot that he doubts at least some of his words, most likely, putting a burden of responsibility on himself again, but Lancelot is not sure how to help. Once they fling the door of the kitchen open and find it thankfully empty, he helps Gawain locate the right cookbook and goes to scavenge for some leftovers for himself while the knight flips the pages.

“Didn’t Priamus specify the dish?” Lancelot wonders, polishing off a small chunk of cheese brought by one of the carts and watching Gawain skim the lines, his frown deepening as he reads.

“No, but I am going to make him realise I am still… But no, for this dish we need game, and I won’t touch the one we caught because of some foolish bet,” Gawain sighs as he glances around with a cornered, feral look, raking a hand through his dishevelled hair that has escaped the knot and spilt over his shoulder. “Isn’t it funny how we have these spices and wines but nothing to actually pair them with now...? Oh, look, a mouse. Can you—thank you, your aim is so good. Do you think Priamus would like a mouse stew with saffron? A pinch of it costs like this entire ruin, might sweeten the deal…”

The mouse in question is pinned to the wall in a dramatic fashion that Lancelot decides to leave until he can show it to Percy. Picking up a new knife to use on the next vermin and flipping it in his hand, Lancelot frowns.

“It is not a ruin,” he murmurs, stepping closer and wrapping his arms around Gawain from the back, bruising the red hair away to bury his nose in the man’s neck. “It’s home.”

Giving him a lingering sideways glance, Gawain slowly grins, some of the tension bleeding out of his posture. 

“Alright,” he says and turns back to the book, rustling the pages while Lancelot reaches for the jars scattered over the table. “Something else then… Home, really?”

“Stop being a sap,” Lancelot commands, chewing on the mulberry he stole and glancing into the cookbook, pointing with a knife at the drawing on the page. “What’s that?”

“A lemon,” Gawain sighs mournfully, carefully tipping the blade away with one finger. “All of them need lemons. Fucking Highlands have none.”

“Well, what does it taste like? Can we replace it?” Lancelot frowns, picking up more berries with his mouth from a handful he holds. 

“It’s sour.”

“How sour? Like your face when you see Priamus flirt with Pym?”

“That obvious?” Gawain winces, and Lancelot nods readily, swallowing the last of the berries. “That sour, yes.”

Tilting his head, Lancelot studies Gawain’s face for a moment, the slightly haunted, stubborn look on it that hints that somehow more is at stake than just a foolish bet between friends. “Why do you hate him so much if he is your friend?”

“I don’t hate him—he is just such an airhead vagabond,” Gawain sighs, rustles pages, settles on a recipe he deems possible in their circumstances. “He thinks I am wrong for trying to build a life here, even though—well, it’s not like I have a choice—”

“Of course you do,” Lancelot frowns, idly flipping a knife in his hand. “If we win, we are free to do what we want, roam the world, slay the maidens, save the dragons. You were an airhead vagabond yourself, weren’t you?”

“Yes. I was,” Gawain says in a low, pained voice, a raw, wary look on his face that makes Lancelot pause in slashing at the air.

“So, you can be one again. But Priamus is wrong for berating you for being loyal to your people, so we need to knock him down. For that, we are in dire need of,” Lancelot checks, “cowpeas? Eggplant? Are those real words?”

Gawain, who has been watching him with an unreadable expression, his arms crossed, leans over to plant a kiss on his shoulder and nods.

“Do you think we can replace half of those—” he glances at the crate standing in the corner, “—with turnips?”

“I really don’t think so,” Lancelot supplies, peering over his shoulder while the knight turns back to the cutting board with a fierce scowl:

“Do we have a choice?”

“No. Turnips have us surrounded and at their mercy,” Lancelot singsongs, waltzing to the crate, then pauses, hand hovering in the air above the damned vegetable. “Gawain... why does this one have a face?”

“What?” Gawain frowns, looking over his shoulder. “Oh—oh gods, oh for fuck’s sake, whose bright idea it was to put mandrake with—I will strip him of his title if I catch him. When—when I catch him.”

“Who? Percy?”

“Who else,” Gawain sighs, running a hand over his face, plucking the mandrake out and dropping it on the table before turning to the shelves to get a jar of honey from it. “Who did he get it from…”

“His father, probably, from what I’ve heard,” Lancelot shrugs and looks up at the rattle when Gawain drops the jar. “Everything alright? What’s so bad about the mandrake? Is it poisonous?”

“No, the young one like that just gets you high,” Gawain informs him, sucking the honey off his fingers and humming thoughtfully. “To hell with it, I am making baklava. One cannot go wrong with baklava.”

Still processing the mandrake trivia, Lancelot nods, though he has no idea what baklava is; but if it involves honey, in his opinion, it cannot be bad. Due to the abysmal lack of any cooking talents and his resolute desire to avoid being seen in the kitchen save for stealing things in plain sight, his participation consists in walking in circles, providing moral support while Gawain does the actual cooking.

“Can I eat the mandrake?” he calls out, and Gawain looks at him for a moment before giving a shrug.

“A bit. Wash it first! Gods, Lance, really? Just biting into it? Give it to me.”

Handing it over, Lancelot pouts and narrows his eyes. “Well, I am not the one familiar with magical drugs.” 

“That’s not drugs,” Gawain murmurs, carving a tiny piece for him, and presenting it to him on the tip of a knife. “Here. Not more—you’re a lightweight.”

Filled with anxious curiosity, Lancelot chews, the tangy, bitter taste coating his tongue until he winces, then listens to himself for a moment, frowns and shrugs. “I don’t really feel anything.”

“Really? Huh. Wait, let me try, is it—no, I think it’s good. Oh, yes, it is—I’ll put it away. Baklava will not take kindly to me being high.”

Indeed, Lancelot is barely affected — to his chagrin, he was kind of looking forward to more depravity in his life — but Gawain is, at least a bit, his laughter more carefree and a gleam in his eyes brighter than before. Naturally, it dissolves into tomfoolery once Lancelot grows bored and tries to distract Gawain from measuring spices and crushing nuts again. In the middle of experimentally duelling with rolling pins, soft footsteps announce a new visitor, and they barely have time to hide the pins behind their backs before Kaze peeks in to snort at the disastrous landscape.

Flour covers both of them like snow after Lancelot accidentally tripped Gawain by being too quiet and not alerting the man to being right behind him. Clearing his throat, Gawain straightens, requesting to know whether he is needed urgently, to which Kaze shakes her head and informs them that she just wanted to tell that raiders are in the mood because of the thunderstorm, so bawdy sea shanties to appease gods are ahead.

Wincing simultaneously, they watch her saunter down the hallway with a jar of elderberry jam that Cora favours, then sigh, exchanging furtive glances. Closing the door, they get back to their respective activities — Gawain rolling the dough flat, Lancelot gnawing at the stone-hard dried berry he found forgotten in a corner as he tries to calculate how to get to the honey jar the knight keeps out of his reach.

“Is it done?” he murmurs, peering over Gawain’s shoulder, trying to distract him while his hand creeps towards the jar.

“No,” Gawain smiles, swatting his hand away, then huffs, blowing the hair off his face; Lancelot reaches out to brush it away, awkwardly trying to bride it but abandoning it half-way through. “It’s a long one. You can help.”

“You mean cut something?” Lancelot asks with hope.

Sighing, Gawain glances at the dough, then narrows his eyes. “Cut it in four rows, then diagonally nine times. So that...”

“... thirty-six diamonds, got it,” Lancelot nods eagerly, darting off to fetch the knife and gleefully twirling it in his hand as he advances at the dough. 

They work in amiable silence for a bit until finally, Gawain puts the future baklava into the oven and steps back. Wiping the flour off his forehead with the back of his hand, he draws up a chair for himself—Lancelot does not hesitate to finally snatch the chance to hug him, standing between his legs and revelling in the generous caress.

It starts chaste, hands running down his spine and kisses pressed to his wrists, but it loses the innocence fast, the touch growing more insistent until Gawain hauls him closer by the hips and catches the hem of his tunic. Pushing it up and holding it around his waist with one hand, Gawain licks a long, ticklish stripe over his bare stomach, the fingers of his other hand brushing over Lancelot’s backside, squeezing it.

“You’re eating well,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss under his navel, and Lancelot frowns fiercely, glancing down to where the glistening saliva cools on his skin. 

“Well, yes, but I am not—I am not soft,” he protests, horrified at the implication that his frame, again, began to gravitate towards the feminine. He was secretly darkly pleased to see all the odd shapes melt away, only his real sharp and hard ridges left, even though he’d rather not go with that little food ever again, given how poorly he fought back then.

“Not in the slightest,” Gawain concedes with a grin, then bites at his stomach and growls, the rumble of it tinged with laughter. “But you look different.”

“How so?” Lancelot frowns, drawing away, but pauses, stopped by a gentle hand on his thigh. 

When Gawain looks up to meet his eyes, Lancelot’s stomach clenches at the hungry look on his face, black pupils blown wide, the dark green eaten away until it is but a thin ring. Freezing, he watches how Gawain slides his fingers under the hem of his trousers, tugs it away and leans in for another half-kiss, half-bite just barely above the dark curls.

“Delectable,” he says in a hushed, husky voice, his mouth climbing higher up Lancelot’s belly, his eyes not straying from his face—he is not even blinking. “Can eat you whole. Your scent, the mere taste of you — it just brings me down to my knees.”

Mesmerised, Lancelot feels the flush heat his cheeks, his lips parting on a shaky exhale, mind unfurling, drawn in by the steady caress, by the unwavering heavy focus, uncoiling and opening up to let Gawain in—just like his body does, the sweet, tangy scent of his arousal that, it seems, is potent enough for Gawain to feel, too.

Slowly, he averts his gaze, sucking a hard, demanding kiss in the tender skin just under the navel, and Lancelot gasps, barely audible, his fingers trembling as he cards them carefully through the thick red strands parting readily for him. However, he only tangles his hand in them, caught between wanting to urge Gawain forward and wrangle his head back.

His lacing is undone, he realises with a start, heart leaping to his throat and skipping a beat, and he has not even noticed Gawain do it. It’s so heady, the way he feels seen and still wanted, but something is off, as if Gawain is not speaking to him—or it’s not Gawain who speaks, the lilting tone dangerous in a way that makes his stomach clench with too much trepidation mixed with arousal.

Before he can ask what is going on, Gawain inhales sharply, his voice coming gravely and harsh in a way it rarely ever is.

“Want to fill you up, taste every single drop of you, juice and sweat and...” he swallows hard, his eyelashes fluttering and the corner of his lips twitching, something dazed in the jade of his eyes that Lancelot has never seen before quite like that. He caught only glimpses and shadows while now it faces him in its full power, terrifying in its focus when Gawain looks him in the eye. “It wouldn’t be wrong to have you like that, I don’t think so. You’re so strong, so—wild, just asking for me to tame you.”

Startled by the change in his tone, Lancelot swallows dryly, pauses, feeling his own pulse beat under Gawain’s lips. They are caught in a momentous silent struggle, Gawain gently urging him to get rid of the clothes while Lancelot clutches at the hem, desperately trying to get his thoughts together. He is snapped out of his stupor by the sounds of footsteps approaching the kitchens, and, pulling back with a start, he sharply yanks his tunic down to cover the unlaced trousers.

The door creaks open, letting Priamus in, who freezes in the doorway, taking them both in with a look of genuine surprise.

“Am I interrupting something?” he arches his brow, a hand still hovering over the door handle.

“Yes,” Gawain grits out, his voice thick with barely restrained frustration, just as Lancelot blurts: “No.”

Priamus glances between them, then narrows his eyes briefly and takes a step inside, closing the door.

“Makes it a maybe,” he remarks airily, a keen gleeful glimmer in his eyes when he tilts his head and takes a bite out of an apple he is holding. 

Throwing his head back, Gawain narrows his eyes, catching Lancelot’s gaze and holding it. He still looks hungry but no longer dazed, the familiar sharp gleam having returned to his eyes that calms Lancelot’s racing heart a bit.

“What do you want, Priamus?” he asks, his voice low but clear, and tense enough to make Lancelot glance between them in mild alarm.

Priamus, in his turn, looks utterly unconcerned when he grins and pushes off the closed door and strolls through the kitchen, chatting as he walks, gesticulating with an apple. “Oh, many things, the crown and you two included, but actually I just wanted to steal some berries, and then I will be on my way.”

Lancelot’s mind just halts at the easy admission, while Gawain simply lets it slide, only a barely noticeable tension in his jaw as they both watch Priamus saunter over to one of the shelves, looking for mulberries, which, coincidentally, are Pym’s favourites.

“On your way where,” Gawain narrows his eyes, and he is still clutching Lancelot’s hips, a possessive, heavy gesture that makes Lancelot pause, giving him a confused look. It is odd, but he decides to bring it up later when the man does not feel so cornered — instead, he gently taps his shoulder and extricates himself from the hold, stepping back to the crate under the pretence of sorting through it.

“Nowhere,” Priamus chirps, leaning against the tabletop lazily and biting into the apple again with a juicy crunch and a smug grin. “Ooh, is that baklava I smell? Wanted to put some sweet buns in the oven, Gawain? Good choice.”

Gawain falls silent, huffing angrily, his eyes narrowed. He opens his mouth twice, but, ultimately, he decides to drop the topic.

“Where did you get an apple,” he demands to know in a haughty voice of a pissed off housekeeper.

“Where did you get a mandrake?” Priamus shoots back, nodding at Lancelot, who freezes where is anxiously plucking the leaves off the vegetable. Then, the knight sighs and glances at the fruit in question critically. “An experimental batch from your druids, fresh from yesterday. Pym got some as a courting gift from her suitor and shared them with me. It’s terrible, as sour as Kaze’s face—please don’t tell her I said that. You want it?”

The disapproval radiates from Gawain in waves that make Lancelot’s fingers twitch for a knife, simply out of habit. The mandrake is rapidly losing any resemblance to a face under his nails as he listens to Gawain seethe.

“Yes,” he snaps and snatches the apple thrown his way out of the air, devouring it in a time it takes for Lancelot to blink. There is only a stem left that Gawain spits in his palm.

There is a bit of silence as they both watch him, Piamus with an amused smirk and Lancelot with bated breath. His eyes are closed, and a complicated, reverent, tormented expression on his face is the one that usually belongs to religious murals.

“How was it?” Priamus asks with cautious interest. “Did you come?”

“Oh, fuck you,” Gawain exhales, opening his eyes.

“Oh, we’re doing that again?” Priamus grins, and Lancelot looks up sharply just when Gawain stands up, obviously intent on murdering the other knight despite his bribery.

Pushing him firmly down on the chair, Lancelot turns around. “Again?”

“You didn’t know?” Priamus’s brows fly up, and he winces, looking genuinely apologetic. “Huh. Sorry, I didn’t know it was a secret.”

“You don’t know what a secret is in general,” Gawain grits through clenched teeth, struggling against the firm hand that Lancelot keeps on his chest.

“You were… together?” Lancelot repeats, not budging an inch and not taking his eyes off Priamus, who shrugs and nods.

“We had fun together,” he explains, tucking a stray curl behind his ear and crossing his arms. “And with other people. It’s in the past, do not worry.”

Worry is the last thing on Lancelot’s mind, after the initial unease at not knowing such a significant thing. Inhaling deeply, he untangles the scents, uncovering, to his distant horror, that Pym is indeed involved. But also, to his thrilled, cautious surprise, that judging by the steady scent of arousal that has not dwindled despite the quarrel, some things are not as in the past as they both want him to think.

“You want to do it again,” he says slowly, glancing between them, the flaring up blush on Gawain’s cheekbones an answer in itself.

“No,” Gawain bites out, just as Priamus nods: “Yes.”

Looking back at Gawain, Lancelot pauses, studying him with an unspoken question in his eyes, gently carding his fingers through his hair, over the neck in a way that makes the knight shiver and sigh, falling back and then giving a stiff nod.

“It’s a really good memory, and yes, it affects me,” he admits in a tense voice, crossing his arms and glaring in the corner of the kitchen as if his mortal enemy is hiding there. However, when Lancelot brushes his fingers gently over his chin, he sighs and looks up at him, earnest and calm. “I will deal with that; nothing has to happen — don’t worry about it, it will go away.”

Lancelot is really not sure at this point why everyone thinks he is worried about it. The pleasure he finds in the loving touch is the single best feeling he has ever had, and his virtue, luckily, depends on his sword and not on his cunt. Quite the opposite of being frightened or appalled, he feels as if he is on the verge of a brilliant discovery, the same way he was when he came up with the fan of knives that Kaze now wears on her belt. 

Kaze, beautiful, fierce Kaze… Frowning, he shakes his head a bit to focus on the present, on two men watching him in expectant silence. Gawain looks as if he is ready to leap to his defence. At the same time, Priamus just stands there, propped with both hands on the tabletop behind him, his head bowed and a small, gentle smile on his lips.

Squeezing Gawain’s shoulder, Lancelot saunters over to Priamus, stops in front of him and tilts his head, taking stock of his feelings. He is not head over heels for the man, but the pull is there, admiration and intrigue by unbridled, elegant cheerfulness. The fierce edge to it—it’s an appealing, dazzling thing, and Lancelot is curious. He is also pretty sure he can learn a great deal from seeing these delicate brown hands take Gawain apart.

Maybe, he can figure out how he can do it, too, and understand where that strange, wolfish possessiveness came from, test its limits. Slowly, he reaches out, tracing the soft, smiling mouth with his fingers, and swallows under the heavy, heated, dark gaze. His stomach swoops when he hears Gawain inhale sharply, followed by a creak of a chair and, while his fingertips skim over the short dark bristle, Lancelot feels him stop behind him, a scant inch between their bodies.

Licking his lips, Lancelot raises his eyes.

“So,” he says under his breath, “how does it work?”

~

The next morning, they breakfast in silence. Despite scarcely getting any sleep, Lancelot is absolutely delighted, still sore and blissed out, while Gawain is nodding off, worn out—he was slightly more wrecked by the events, surprisingly. Priamus wandered off at dawn — Lancelot is not sure when, exactly, since he was asleep — but dropped by now to ruffle his hair affectionately. With that, he was on his way to present Pym with another bizarre fable that made her laugh sweetly, and the druid boys scowl sourly.

The dining hall is busy — several different fey are gathered around the table, too, planning the small feast to honour the foreign guests. Given the general lack of supplies, it is more of a normal dinner than a feast, but they are doing their best to invent, worried about upholding the reputation of the kingdom. In terms of actual activity, there is just a moonwing cook nodding off at the cauldron with the same porridge they all have been eating for months.

The amiable, hushed din of the kitchen stretches as Lancelot goes through his own bowl of porridge, while Gawain’s is left untouched. He eyes it, then the tired, sleepy face, then the letter laying under the knight’s left hand. The hastily scrawled lines were written by Merlin, a quick notice that there were some delays, nothing they could do, an insistent command for Gawain to stay in the castle, and a reminder for Lancelot to practice control over multiple flames.

Snickering to himself, Lancelot hums around the spoon and fidgets, the pleasant ache in between his legs stirring again. One thing he learned last night, at least, is that no one is going to cage him, and what about indulging himself? Well, it only seems to do him good. Since he has started sleeping with Gawain, it is easier to tame the fire, at least during the day, when no nightmares are there to pry control out of his hands. He has only tried to set the bedroom on fire once in two weeks, making him feel wildly optimistic. 

“Is that apples?” Gawain wonders, opening his eyes for the first time in five minutes and turning his head left and right. “I smell apples.”

Sniffing the air, Lancelot frowns and lowers his spoon. “There are no—”

The door creaks open, a wheelbarrow covered with sackcloth appearing in it, and, behind it, a triumphant looking moonwing.

“Victory!” he announces, raising his fist.

They all gasp in unison: “What?!”

The moonwing lowers his fist, a hesitant look creeping on his face. “Uh… not over the Church. Over turnips.”

The knights groan while Lancelot glares daggers — he is not the only one, as Priamus throws a nut at the boy, who dodges it with an angry squeak, diving behind the wheelbarrow again.

“Hey!” he protests. “Don’t kill the messenger! Sir Gawain, tell him not to!”

“Priamus, stop harassing my people,” Gawain orders, then throws a nut himself. “It’s my prerogative.”

He stands up and comes closer to the wheelbarrow, pretending not to notice the grimace Priamus makes. His nose twitches, eyes growing wider, and he swallows hard.

Without further delay, he reaches out to lift the edge of sackcloth covering the cargo, and the most perfect, round and ripe apples Lancelot has ever seen are revealed to the world. Judging from Gawain’s look, he has achieved everything he has ever dreamed of, and might have as well found the Holy Grail.

“Apples,” he breathes out, so much gentle longing in his voice that Lancelot is, suddenly, ridiculously, jealous. Frowning, he looks down on his plate, but out of the corner of his eye, he catches Priamus bite down the smile, hiding it under the fingers he keeps splayed over his mouth.

It’s still red, bitten by both of them.

Clearing his throat, Lancelot lifts the spoon to his mouth, the corners of it twitching in a smile when he hears Gawain moan around a bite. 

Behind the knight, more wheelbarrows follow, carrying all sorts of vegetables. With an excited squeak, Pym rushes to reward the proud druid boy with three kisses that leave him as red as the beet he carries like one would a newborn. A small flock of cheering fey following her, congratulating apprentices on a breakthrough in agricultural magic. 

When Lancelot looks up at Gawain, he sees him smile, radiant like the sun, sharp teeth sinking into the crisp, red apple.

~

“Something is wrong,” Lancelot announces, lifting his head for a moment. “It can’t be that good. Life is never that good.”

The words have required too much air, so he goes back to rocking back and forth in silence, his arms wrapped around his knees. The cold seeping into the window is just enough to take the edge off his panic, but not more. It feels stupid to be so worked up over life being good, yet here he is, curled up on a windowsill in the more remote part of the northern tower. To be fair, it is a jarring transition, these last two weeks of never-ending bliss — he cannot even say that it is better than before, it is just that his life was split like a tree struck by lightning, the before becoming but a distant memory lost in the rosy haze filling his head. 

However, he knows that shadows like his would not be laid to rest that easily; the feeling of missing something does not leave him these days, growing stronger until he can no longer ignore it. Though neither Gawain nor Kaze seem to be worried, so it cannot be anything really worthy of bringing up. He does not exactly expect consolations or prodding — he would have gone to Pym if he needed that — but the silence that meets his statement is a bit too heavy.

“What’s wrong?” he asks, throwing his head up again, and running his nails down his forearms. “I—I shouldn’t have asked, right..? I am sorry. I will not—it is just so strange, he has never looked at me before, but now…”

He stops scratching his own skin when Kaze puts a startlingly gentle hand on his shoulder. She sits next to him on the broad windowsill of the upper galleries, a place far enough from the bustling ground floors to allow them some privacy. There is another quiet moment, Lancelot looking at her with such wide eyes, he can feel it himself. Kaze looks as if she is gathering the courage to speak, which, frankly, alarms him more than all the warning bells ringing at once.

“He has looked at you before, of that, you can be sure,” she says in a low voice, then sighs.

“He has?”

Her fingers brush over his neck, swiping the curls away. “You are wonderful, do you know that? Inside and outside, just as you are. Gawain sees that, and—and so do I.”

“What do you mean?” Lancelot whispers, his mouth gone dry. He is afraid to even inhale, acutely aware of the feather-lighter touch of her hand.

Kaze pauses, her lips parted already, and Lancelot cannot tear his eyes away, flushed with anticipation, but the balance shifts all wrong: she draws back slightly, clearing her throat and taking her hand away.

“Gawain is in the wrong,” she murmurs, clasping her wrist with one hand, a nervous gesture that sends a chill down Lancelot’s spine. “He is just a man, despite the title. And he is in the wrong place right now, even though he hides it. The roads you take can still be entwined that way _you_ want it once you are honest with each other. You need to remember that.”

“What do you mean?” Lancelot frowns, the alarm bells ringing in his head, his heart thumping against his ribs like a bird beating its wings. 

She narrows her eyes before drawing a deep inhale in. “I need to tell you something...”

Before she can finish, the familiar footsteps interrupt her, echoing through the narrow hallway, and Lancelot barely has time to notice a flicker of annoyance flare in her eyes before the cheerful voice forces him to look away.

“Oh, Lance, you’re here, I’ve been looking every—what’s wrong?”

Gawain stops dead in his tracks, and the awkward, tense silence falls. Kaze’s face grows longer, everything in her stiff posture breathing anger when she looks at Gawain, while Lancelot glances in confusion between them, quiet and suddenly unsure all over again of whether he is allowed to interrupt their staredown.

Meeting Kaze’s scornful look with a polite raise of his brow, Gawain shifts his gaze to Lancelot before returning it to the knight.

“What is going on?” he repeats, his voice shifting into that cold, hard tone that prompts Lancelot to uncurl, finally, settle into a stance that reminds both of them, and himself, that he is not a scared child.

Lowering his feet to the ground, he throws Kaze a lingering look and turns to face Gawain.

“I lost control of the fire for a moment,” Lancelot explains, a lie rolling off smoothly from his tongue as he holds the knight’s gaze unwaveringly. “Nothing bad, but I needed to calm down. Kaze came to check on me.”

A frown knitting his brows together, Gawain steps closer, reaching to take his hand, and Lancelot waits while he turns it, inspecting the smooth, unblemished palm. Slowly letting go of it, Gawain looks up to meet his eyes, searching them for something that Lancelot hopes he will not find, because he needs to find it first.

“If you didn’t want me to know, you could have just said so,” Gawain says, finally, and takes a small step back, watching Lancelot flush and narrow his eyes. “I respect your privacy—if it does not put you in danger.”

Lowering his eyes, Lancelot rolls his shoulders, fingers tightening over the edge of the windowsill. It is a cold, unforgiving stone, and it lends him the stability he needs to withstand the hurricane that is the disapproval and hurt radiating from Gawain. It twists around him, squeezes his throat tight like a collar, but he clenches his jaw and forces the words out.

“And who defines what danger is?” he asks, and more feels than sees how Kaze moves in surprise. It is both flattering and slightly insulting that she did not expect him to talk back, but he cannot think about it now. He needs to focus on reading Gawain — so he raises his head to see a small flinch, a subtle tension twisting the corner of his lips and freezing the surface of his eyes.

“It depends. Sometimes I do,” Gawain utters, their gazes locked like the blades, an almost physical force put behind them. “As your commander, I need to make sure you don’t overestimate what you can take. We both know you do it sometimes.”

Once again, Kaze inhales, angry and fast, but Lancelot is faster.

“And as my lover? What do you decide then?” he demands, a jolt of feral satisfaction piercing the oppressive cloud of tension gathering in his stomach from having to confront and defy Gawain like that. It is a new experience, trying to spar with words.

Inexperienced as he is, he loses — sees it before the blow comes in the way Gawain’s eyes soften, the harsh angles of his face submerging under the surface.

“As your lover, I am worried you cannot trust me with something important. Have I done anything to fail your trust? If I did, tell me—let me make amends.”

Flinching, Lancelot holds his gaze for a second longer in vain frustration, looking for an opening, a chip in that perfect armour — but it is polished and smooth, the sun reflecting from it blinding him, and, with a sharp quiet exhale, he deflates.

“Nothing,” he murmurs, avoiding looking at both of them, his fingers clenched to the point of pain around the edge of the windowsill. “You haven’t done anything wrong, I am sorry.”

“You don’t have to be sorry,” Kaze says suddenly, sharp and cutting, interrupting whatever Gawain was going to reply. Pushing off the windowsill, she gets up, squaring her shoulders and looking her friend up and down with a defiant look, her eyes ablaze. “Stop this immediately. Lancelot deserves better than this manipulative nonsense.”

“Kaze,” Gawain says slowly, his voice low, and now, now he is angry like Lancelot has never seen him before, eyes narrowed and a glimmer of lethal cold in his eyes, as if he is a cornered animal. “What the hell are you talking about?”

For a split second, it looks as if she will shove him back, and Lancelot freezes, unsure of who to lunge at first to break up the brewing fight — but with a deep inhale, Kaze straightens, shifting her weight back. Giving him a lingering glance, she tightens her jaw.

“I am talking about you making him think he is at fault for having doubts. Lancelot? Are you well enough? Good. I expect you tomorrow in the morning training. And be assured — there are people at your side, and they will be, no matter if things are going well or poorly.”

With that, she departs, her tail twitching angrily, swaying from side to side as she walks. They both follow her with their eyes until she rounds the corner. Then, Gawain turns to him, the weight of his questioning stare heavy enough to make Lancelot hunch in on himself.

“What was that about?”

Not raising his eyes, Lancelot shrugs half-heartedly, abandons his pretence and lowers the shields. “I was scared that everything goes too well.”

“That’s it?” Gawain chuckles, drawing him closer, an easy, then bites playfully at his ear. “Well, I guess that scene balanced the things out. Feeling better?”

Scoffing, Lancelot shakes his head at first, but after a short moment of tense silence crumbles and settles closer, drawing Gawain back. Immediately, the warm arms are wrapped around him, and he utters a quiet little sigh, as forlorn for his lack of will as it is relieved for it. 

“You’re not angry?” he murmurs softly, hiding his face in the crimson tunic and running his fingers over the golden stitches of embroidery running along the collar. “You looked like you were.”

“No. Not at you, at least. Even if you haven’t shared everything, we all have secrets, I told you,” Gawain sighs, palming his hand and holding it gently for a short moment. “You’re entitled to yours—and Kaze’s, now, I suppose. Just be careful, please.”

He sounds more petulant than irked, so Lancelot just shoots him a quick look and glances away. They stand in silence, overlooking the frozen landscape, clumps of bare trees shivering in the cold wind and deep snow laying silently between them, the dull grey clouds tossing and turning above it, ready to bury the castle under another snowfall. 

The brownish-red tents of paladins huddle under the piles of snow as if they, too, are cold. Lancelot almost asks about it but stays his tongue in time and keeps quiet. However, Gawain, it seems, reads his thoughts.

“The war might be over soon,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss to the crown of Lancelot’s head, over the windswept curls.

“How are you so sure? Is it the magician, has he sent anything?”

“Not yet. But I have faith.”

“Faith? In what?”

“In fey. In you,” Gawain smiles, wry and serious, tilting his chin up. It is a thrill that never gets old, and Lancelot surrenders readily, moving up to meet Gawain’s mouth. When they part, Gawain smiles wry and warm. “I told you, you can turn the tide of this war.”

They stand in silence for a bit longer, an easy, warm embrace, with Lancelot’s temple pressed under Gawain’s collarbone, arms encircled around each other. Lancelot is stroking the grey velvet with his knuckles, marvelling at the steady breaths, at the gentle warm scent that makes him melt. If the gods allowed, he feels he would have stayed like this forever, never grow tired of listening to this heartbeat.

 _Yes,_ he thinks. _Yes._ He will say yes tomorrow.

The soft hum reverberating from Gawain’s chest under his cheek prompts him to look up, meeting the warm green eyes. It sounds like a melody, and he is, to his surprise, being swayed slightly from side to side. 

It’s a bit startling, and his first instinct is to recoil, but the worry fizzles out immediately when Gawain simply sways with him, slow and easy. A small, shy grin stretches Lancelot’s lips when he buries his head in the knight’s chest again, glancing up when a warm hand trails down his back, settling on the small of it.

“Have you considered the invitation?” Gawain asks in a low voice.

“What invitation?” Lancelot startles again.

“To the feast.”

“What feast?” he asks, blinking owlishly and feeling more than a bit foolish under the unimpressed look he is given, then gasps softly. “Oh, that feast! The Yule one?”

“That would be the one,” Gawain confirms with a wry smile. “The entire castle is talking about it, you know.”

“Yes, well—I was busy with Goliath and Kaze, and I thought it doesn’t really concern me… Do you want me to guard it? I mean, I will anyway, it’s my duty, but do I need to prepare?”

“I want you to attend it, too.”

Lancelot frowns. “I will. I will have to if I am guarding. Am I missing something?”

Was he perhaps to be stationed on the perimeter? That would make sense, he was always excluded from the celebrations, but he had a faint hope he would be allowed inside this time, on account of having friends among the crowd. What a foolish hope, he really should have known better...

Pinching the bridge of his nose, Gawain is silent for a moment, but the corner of his lips twitches, betraying the smile he is fighting back.

“Yes, wren,” he murmurs. “You’re missing the fact that you are, as much as you like to deny it, this castle’s master's lover.”

Lost in the implications veering in front of him like crossroads, Lancelot latches onto the most pragmatic question that the proclamation entails. 

“Does it mean I have to take more knives or fewer knives..?”

The silence in that short pause that follows is enough for Lancelot to rapidly realise that it was perhaps the polar opposite of what he was supposed to ask. The wind picks up outside.

“You know what?” Gawain says with an inspired air as he hugs him closer. “Bring all the knives you want. Who am I to deny you little things.”

~

Later on the same day, or rather on the break of a new one already, they are in the kitchen, again, because Gawain could not sleep, and Lancelot, dazed and unwilling of letting go of the warmth, decided to trail along. The feast is tomorrow, and with more vegetables from the enchanted garden, the entire kitchen is covered in jars and bowls and plates, but they find an empty spot.

Hugging him from behind, Lancelot props his chin on the man’s shoulder, watching him work. This little peace encapsulated between their bodies, the fragile, invincible determination to stay together, two wind currents meeting high above the ground and deciding to continue their journey together — maybe, he thinks, it is his, happiness finally finding him after having lost him in the blood-soaked, soot-covered wreckage of the war. Maybe, this is his reward for all the hardship, the moment of truth and courage he should not back down from.

Leaning in, Lancelot takes a deep breath, inhaling Gawain’s scent to fortify himself.

“Were you serious about the proposal?” he murmurs in his ear, and Gawain pauses, hands hovering over the cutting board with a knife in his hand.

“Yes,” he says, his voice as tense and low as Lancelot’s is.

“Then yes,” Lancelot breathes out, his heart beating so wildly, he is surprised he manages to get the words out in between its beats.

Immediately, Gawain turns around, catching his face in both palms, a knife still gripped in his hand laying flat and cold against Lancelot’s cheek, and presses their mouths together in a hard, desperate kiss.

“Yes?” he murmurs, drawing back just enough to look Lancelot in the eyes, his hands never leaving his face, and Lancelot smiles, feels the resistance of his cheeks against the rough palms that smell like spices, and that is why his eyes are watery, only that.

“Yes,” he confirms with a grin, and Gawain kisses him again, hardly gentler than before, but this one is less of a question—it tastes like a triumph, a shared victory over the long, cold days.

They kiss again, and then some more, laughing in each other’s mouths. Gawain has finally put the knife down — not that Lancelot minded — and his face is lighter than for all the days they have known each other as if the burden was lifted from his shoulders.

Closing his eyes, Lancelot smiles, losing himself in the the flickers of all the roads that they will surely travel together once the war is over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title from Melnitza - Dorogi ([youtube](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=P_g3sYGuuEA)).  
> Chapters 10-12 are not beta-read, sorry about that. If you spot something outrageous, drop me a comment.  
> Actually, drop me a comment anyway, I love hearing from you <3

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, Valerin and SuperLizard, for catching the typos!  
> Kudos & comments are very appreaciated <3 I would love to hear what you feel after reading the chapter and what are your thoughts on the story :) Also, please let me know if the tags are wrong or incomplete.


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